Up a Winding Stair
by Dannemund
Summary: Clara returns to the Citadel to finish her father's work, trying her very hardest not to mess it up this time. Along the way she makes a few new friends, enemies, and learns a thing or two about herself. (Rated M for mature; violence, sexual content, mean people.) Sequel to Said the Spider to the Fly.
1. Rivet City

Note: I figured ten chapters meant it was time to publish, so... Not so sure where it will end up, but there are elements of romance to this.

Clara is back and trying to figure out what to do with herself in the wasteland, and making new friends along the way.

* * *

Clara stared out over the water, looking at the Jefferson Memorial. Watching the glint of the Enclave soldiers' armor as they moved around on the ramp, on the ground. She needed to get out there and deal with them. For her dad. They'd _killed_ him... and she hadn't finished the job. She sighed, and bit her lip.

She was used to being alone. Since her dad had moved out of their shared quarters, since she was forced to flee the Vault, since she'd had to find a way to track him down, she'd been alone. Until she'd met―

"Do you think there's a heaven?" she asked Butch, who was sitting on the edge of the ship with his legs dangling over the water and drinking a bottle of whiskey.

He made a noise that sounded like "I dunno" mixed with a grunt, but didn't turn to face her. Clara looked back over at the soldiers, and down at her Pip-Boy, starting up one of the holotapes her dad had left in the memorial sub-basement. She'd picked them up, back before her dad died, thinking they were useful.

The sound of her dad's voice on the Pip-Boy speakers made her heart hurt. She'd never been able talk to him, back then, unless it was to do something for the purifier. She hadn't even been able to say goodbye. Clara sniffled, wiping her face of the messy tears that fell. Because of―

Butch threw his empty bottle away and stood up, stretching. "C'mon," he said, grabbing her under the shoulder. "Let's go back inside."

"I want to sit out here for a little while," she said, pulling her arm away.

"It's _boring_ up here. Let's go back to the room." Butch stared down at her, his hair tousled by the wind. He looked annoyed.

"You go ahead," she murmured, staring over the water again. Butch shrugged, and left her alone on the top of Rivet City.

The two of them, once that mess with― _him_ ―was dealt with and done, had escaped to Rivet City. Once there, they'd found the hotel and holed up for a while, because Butch was worried that the Talon Company mercs were going to be after them. Clara thought it sounded like a good idea.

The stay in the Weatherly had been punctuated with Butch's attentions to her, her attentions to him, and her trying to forget about what had happened, She was failing at that last part. Every time she had nice thoughts about Butch―she would remember _him._

 _Mister Burke._ And every time she thought about what she needed to do, to make up for her awful behavior toward her dad... she remembered her dad dying inside the purifier, and how she'd run away, and how Mister Burke hadn't actually been _dead..._

Which led to her remembering him as a ghoul, gone insane, and how she'd had to kill him. It always made her cry.

Clara sniffled again, wiping her face. She'd been crying a _lot,_ too. Didn't like it. Butch didn't like it, he wasn't very good at making her feel better. They were together, and she should be happy, but... she couldn't let herself relax. It was supposed to a vacation from the wastes, and she couldn't be happy. Maybe Butch was right, and the Talon Company _was_ still after her―

Or maybe, like she was starting to think, he was just trying to get out of leaving the tub. Had been trying to convince her to stay there for a while, but she'd mostly ignored it. There was a lot she still needed to _do,_ out there. She couldn't stay, forever.

She thought he'd been joking about staying, at first. But it wasn't playing, and he was getting more and more stubborn about it. Clara didn't like it. She wanted to finish what her dad had started. _Everything_ he'd wanted to do, _all_ the work he'd put into the purifier―brought down by her, letting Mister Burke try to take it from her dad's hands. Letting him put her dad in a position like that.

It made Clara feel _very_ guilty. She didn't like that, either. She owed him to finish it, to go back to Dr. Li up at the Citadel and find out what was next. Maybe _then,_ she could sleep peacefully.

She'd never even been inside the Citadel―she'd run off as soon as Dr. Li got her out of the tunnels and into the sunlight. Ran home, and found the Vault in just as much trouble as she was. It was exciting and sad and frustrating, thinking about what she needed to do, what had happened, and how she'd been _used._

Clara sighed, staring at the memorial. She shivered in the night air. _Better get inside before Butch gets more annoyed at me._ She stood up and yawned, and left the "roof" of Rivet City.

* * *

"I've been thinkin', nosebleed... why not stay here for _good?"_

Clara turned her head to look at Butch, frowning. They were sitting in one of Rivet City's empty rooms, while she did math and checked her caps. She didn't have much left, after taking rooms at the Weatherly for the past nine days. Clara bit her bottom lip and stared down at the scattered caps, thinking hard.

"We can't _afford_ it," she said. "I don't even have money for one room, for tonight. ...And don't call me _nosebleed!"_ She frowned deeper.

Clara's money was all but gone, with only sixty caps left to her name. These were spread out over the table in front of her as she leaned over it, looking through them, recounting to make sure she wasn't making a mistake.

It was settled in her mind that they would have to leave. No way was she able to pay for another night, even if they slept in the same room. Which... she glanced up at Butch and felt her face flush in memory. _Well..._ she didn't know why she'd paid for two rooms when Butch always ended up in hers, but she wasn't complaining.

They had to leave, though. She had little money, barely any food, and no chems at all. It was a _bad_ thing.

Butch had been looking down into her shirt as she bent over, or at least he had tried. She was still wearing the Vault 101 suit that Amata gave her, back before she and Butch left the Vault. Clara noticed him staring at her boobs through the lowered zipper, and ignored him.

"Maybe we can get a room down in the bar," Butch said, scratching his head.

"No," Clara said, sweeping the caps into her pack and setting it on the table. She pulled it shut and sighed. "Let's just go home."

"What, the _Vault?_ I swear, nosebleed―"

 _"Stop calling me that!"_ Clara said, a little too loudly. Butch flinched a little, knowing that she wasn't afraid to throw a punch or two. They'd fought in the past, when they were kids; she hated the stupid nickname, and he used it back then to egg her into fights. In Rivet City, she'd gotten drunk for the first time in her entire life, and Butch had made that mistake again. It earned him a black eye, that night, and he was lucky he hadn't gotten his brains scrambled with as hard as she'd hit him.

She didn't _like_ him using that name. Never had, never _would._ Clara frowned and stared at her pack. "I meant Tenpenny Tower."

"Yeah, but you said that was like, days away," he replied, leaning against the wall.

"It is," she muttered. "But I don't have to pay to live there. I only got sixty caps left, Butch."

He scoffed, looked away. Clara stared at him for a minute, then shouldered her pack. "I'm going home, Butch."

"I'll stay here, then," he grumbled. "I don't like being out _there,_ anyway."

She stared at him again, surprised. "You don't want to go with me?" Her heart wrenched in pain, but she forced herself to ask anyway. Butch was playing, he was always pushing her buttons _―right?_

Butch turned his head and sighed. "Look, Clara, I like you, you _know_ that..."

 _No_ ―she felt the sting in her eyes before the tears came, silently rolling down her cheeks. She sniffled. "Butch?" she said, her voice wavering. "What're you saying?"

"Don't start _crying,"_ he said, looking down in embarrassment. "I just don't―it's too _big_ out there. It's not like the Vault. This ship, it _is._ It feels comfortable. We should stay here, Clara."

She wiped tears from her face. "You're _scared,"_ she mumbled, trying to push the terrible feelings away. It had always been like that with him, pushing and pulling her away―and it wasn't _fair._ She should have known he would do it again. "Just a big scared _baby,"_ she added, meanly.

"I'm _not_ scared!" he protested, but she'd already turned away. "I'm _not,_ Clara!"

"It's okay, Butch," she answered, slowly. "I _get_ it." She couldn't stop crying, though.

"Aw, c'mon, babe," Butch said, moving to her and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "Don't be like _that..._ stay here, with me. It'll work out."

Clara let him hold her for a moment, feeling his warm cheek against her ear, his arms around her. She loved Butch, but she couldn't―she couldn't just give up on her dad's work to be with him. No matter how much she liked to be with him, her guilty conscience was going to kill her, if she didn't get the purifier working.

She'd just... she'd really thought Butch would come _with_ her, when she went. "Butch," Clara said, wiping her nose, "I got to finish what my dad was doing. My mom and him―"

Butch continued on without hearing her. "Someone told me this place needed a barber. Said the last one turned into one of those _things―"_ She knew he meant ghouls, he always said it like that. Hadn't liked them to begin with, and after Mister Burke...

All her fault. She'd opened that can of worms, and closed it, and the fear was still there. Butch would _forever_ be scared of ghouls, and she couldn't blame him. Clara rubbed his arm through his jacket and stared blankly at the floor. Wished it hadn't gone the way it had. Wished Mister Burke had stayed dead after that mess at the purifier.

"I think it might be better for me to stay here, you know? I'm no _good_ out there," he added, motioning to the door, meaning the wasteland.

Clara snorted, splattering his arms with snot. Butch made a small disgusted noise. Yeah, he was right. He wasn't "good" in the wastes, and Clara could only save his butt so many times before she started thinking she was better off on her own. Would save her a small fortune in stimpaks, not having him around.

...She was gonna miss him something _terrible,_ though. Wiping her eyes in a sweeping move, and shaking his arms from her shoulders, she turned to face him. "Alright, Butch," she told him. "You stay here. It's okay."

"I still _like_ you, babe," Butch said. "I just can't go back out there. It's too intense for me."

"It's _okay,_ Butch," she whispered. She turned around and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'll miss you."

"You're taking this better than I thought you would," he muttered.

Clara frowned at him. "I'm not _that_ dumb!"

"That's not what I meant, nosebleed―"

Clara smacked him upside the head, knocking him sideways. "I warned you! _Stop calling me that!"_

"Owwww! _Shit!"_ Butch rubbed his ear. _"Dammit!"_

Clara reddened. She hadn't meant to box his ear, just to smack him a little. "I-I'm sorry," she mumbled, looking down in shame.

 _"Dammit!"_ he repeated. "Jeez, Clara!"

She glanced up. "I didn't _mean_ to―"

"Whatever, stupid, just _go_ already. Don't need you knocking me around like my damn mom used to," he grumbled, pushing past her and out into the tub. Clara watched him going, before cleaning her face off.

Pushed away. Like he had before. She held the strap of her pack with one hand, staring at her other hand. She didn't know how to control it―Clara sucked snot up into her head and fought the urge to cry.

Wasn't anything she could do but keep going. She'd been fine on her own, before. Clara stared after Butch. She was going to miss him, but at least... she knew where he would be, if she needed him.

She turned herself toward the door, trying to stay happy about finishing the job for her dad.

But it was really, _really_ hard.


	2. Mean People

_"Thrrreeee Dooooggg!_ That's me, kids. Comin' to you taped from my fortified bunker in the middle of a D.C. hellhole. Ain't life grand?

"We all know the dangers of radiation, but with the right precautions, you _can_ prevent accidental death or even... _eeeewww..._ ghoulification... Keep your eyes on those geiger counters, kids. _Tick, tick, tickety_ means run your ass outta there, and then pop some RadAway for good measure. If you do need to head into the heat, be smart. Give yourself a nice boost of Rad-X first. Remember, only _you_ can prevent human flesh fires."

Three Dog had been engaged in recording another dazzling piece of radio news when the alarm was called to lock the outer doors. Another attack on the Galaxy News Radio building―another scintillating moment or two of bullets spraying across the plaster, the paladins fighting off the enemy, another round of drinks on Three Dog when they were repelled.

He would have said it was annoying, if he hadn't passed that point ages before and hadn't gone straight into sarcastic optimism about the big green Uglies that plagued the D.C. ruins. Without the Brotherhood there, his goose would have been cooked _long_ ago. Without the Brotherhood there, there would be no Galaxy News Radio and he wouldn't be able to fight the "Good Fight" against the Enclave and other nasty business in the wasteland.

Fighting the "Good Fight", of course, was not without sacrifice. Three Dog routinely sacrificed his own comfort, having the soldiers using the building. Couldn't take a piss around the place without some naive initiate cropping up to ask him if what he was saying on the radio was true. Usually relating to that weird kid from 101, who was making dirt waves out in the wastes―so he'd started reporting on the girl, because if it made the Brotherhood kids nervous, it was sure to make grown wastelanders pee their pants.

And they _needed_ to know about that sort of person, to be wary of it. That was why he'd been broadcasting for five years, now.

He'd met James, he knew James had been killed down at the purifier, and he knew James' kid was out there _somewhere,_ but he hoped that the gossip brought in about the 101 kid wasn't about James' kid. The girl had _blown up Megaton,_ for Christ's sake! _The apple and the tree, we all know that story._

Three Dog waited for the latest attack to be over and done with, before bothering to send his latest holotape recording over to Margaret. She didn't give a crap what he asked her to do so long as she had food and shelter. A thoroughly unimaginative ally in the Good Fight―the woman wouldn't know _style_ if it bit her in the ass. Three Dog liked her, though. She was solid, even if she acted the annoyed assistant. They needed good solid folk like her around.

One of the Paladins was down in the lobby yelling something. Three Dog shook his head at the soldiers, and their excitability. Seemed like they would do anything for some combat. Couldn't enjoy the tranquility of an attack-free day, or the calm after the storm when the Uglies did show up. He'd seen many a soldier come and go, and they were all the same. _Gung-ho, ready to mow..._ down the enemy. _God love that Brotherhood of Steel!_

He ignored the yelling, going about his business. After a time, the door to his pad opened and he stared down into the gloom to see who had shown up. Some stacked young woman in a blue suit with yellow letters― _aw, hell. Three Dog, if your time has come, you fought as long and as hard as you could. Rest in peace, you handsome son of a bitch!_

Vault 101 walked into his pad, staring around at the walls, looking at the staircase. Lord, but she looked her father all over. right down to the funny smile on her face. She reminded him of the visit from James. Hard to imagine such a sweet-faced young thing could cause such horror, in the world, killing everyone in Megaton. But, _hell,_ he wasn't surprised by people any more than Margaret was capable of cracking a smile.

That is to say, he was _never_ surprised by people. Nothing could be done to change that. Margaret just needed to learn to _relax._

Three Dog waited for Vault 101 to walk up to him, before catching her off guard with a greeting. "The look on your face says it all. You're wondering who the heck this guy is and why you should care. Well, prepare to be enlightened." He smiled widely at her.

 _"Uh,"_ she said, before opening her mouth in an "O" and closing it. A bright red flush came across her face, and her eyes dropped to the ground. She was waiting for him to continue, her eyebrows drawn together in an embarrassed expression.

"I am Three Dog, jockey of discs and teller of truths. Lord and master over the finest radio station to grace the Wastes Galaxy News Radio." She looked behind him at the console, then down at her Pip-Boy. Looked like she suddenly understood something. "And you, well... I know who you are. Heard about you leavin' that Vault, travelin' the unknown. Just like dear old Dad, hmm? Met him already..."

The girl suddenly sucked snot up into her head and wiped her eyes, patting her hands dry on her thighs. She jammed her hand out, staring up at him with a half-stricken, half-determined look. "I'm Clara," she said, "and I need some help, Mr. Dog."

Three Dog chuckled. "It's Three Dog. Ain't no mister."

She trembled a little, her extended hand lowering. "Uh," she said, looking down at her hand. The resolve began to quail, replaced by the stricken part. "I, _uh..."_

"I know you didn't come here to fight the Good Fight, now did you?" he filled in, prompting her into conversation. The girl was real awkward. Given her reputation―well, it was probably an act. Acts were easy for Three Dog, he knew _all_ about how to manage a show.

"I did," she said, dropping her hand. "My dad... _died,_ and I want to help finish his job." She looked up at Three Dog with wide eyes, filled to the brim with tears. Sounded so damn innocent―it was a _hell_ of an act!

"We got one rule in the Good Fight. You want help, you gotta contribute!" He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her. "You up for it?"

 _Yeah, that was it._ Get her out of the GNR building and tell them idiots out there not to let her back in. They didn't even get that this was the same 101 who'd doomed a whole damn town? _Guess you pick 'em for toughness, not brains._

The girl looked tired as hell, carrying around a sledgehammer and her upper body weight all day. "I would love to help you," she replied, blinking back the tears.

"Good, 'cause this isn't going to be _easy._ Galaxy News Radio is my baby. But no one outside D.C. can hear her cry." Three Dog watched her expression. "You see, some brainless Super Mutant thought it would be funny to shoot at the shiny round thing on the Washington Monument."

"Okay...?" she said, cautiously.

She wasn't following. Three Dog pinched his nose and sighed. "Look, I'll lay it out easy. You go down to the Mall and get me the dish from the Lunar lander in the Museum of Technology. Take that and go up to the monument, pop it into place, and get back here. Once I figure out it's all good to go, I'll get you an intro to the Brotherhood, and that's why you're _here,_ ain't it?" He stared her down. "Because they won't let you into the Citadel with that nasty _reputation_ of yours."

She started to cry. Real hard sobbing, couldn't be faked, wiping away tears and blubbering incoherently. Three Dog was taken aback; it wasn't shaping up to be the intense conversation he'd expected with the notorious 101. It seemed more like he was trying to explain nuclear science to a _toddler._ ...Damn, he remembered James saying something about his kid being as dumb as a bag of hammers. If this 101 was that kid― _aw, hell, Three Dog._ And he went and made her cry.

"You ever _been_ to the Washington Monument? You know what it looks like?"

"No," she muffled, her hands over her face.

"Girl, do you even know what a _radio dish_ looks like?" he asked, exasperated.

 _"No,"_ she repeated, bowing her head in embarrassment.

"You need more than chutzpah to fight the Good Fight, kid." Three Dog scratched his head. "I don't know what to tell you."

"I can do it," she said, but she didn't stop crying. She stared at him through tear-filled blue eyes, and he sighed. "I can _help._ Tell me how to get there."

"Kid, that place is full of Super Mutants and other assorted assholes. You _sure_ about this?" He regarded her for a moment, this little blue and yellow bundle of surprise and tears. Seriously hadn't expected her to be― _this._ How did she make it this far? Without _help?_

Clara's eyes hardened a little, her mouth pushed out in a stubborn look. Even through the mess of snot and tears on her face, she was giving off an attitude of can-do that he appreciated. "I can do it," she repeated, firmly. Her fists clenched at her sides.

"I believe you," he said, smiling with one half of his mouth. "Tell you what, though. You're gonna need someone along with you to help you find that thing. It's a tough nut to crack, out there. I suggest you stop in at the Museum of History, check out Underworld."

"Underworld." She frowned, slightly, dropping her eyes to stare at his chest.

"It's a ghoul city inside the Museum," he started.

Clara jerked in surprise. Her eyes went wide, her mouth pressed together thinly, hands shaking and breath coming a little faster. Three Dog shook his head at that. "Now, girl, those ghouls _are_ people―" he chided.

"I know that," she said, breathlessly, her voice trembling with emotion. "I―my―" She wiped her nose again and started sobbing again. "I was with one, _before,"_ she whispered.

Three Dog raised an eyebrow at her, leaned back and looked her up and down. "Hard to believe you would be sympathetic to their sort, after that _mess_ with Roy Phillips," he said, coldly.

She cried again. Blubbering of a pathetic sort. Three Dog couldn't say much about it―the wasteland made you tough or you died, that was it. Fighting the Good Fight for as long as he had, he knew this was true. Couldn't sugar-coat the truth, no matter how _bad_ it hurt, like he always said on the radio.

"I didn't _know!"_ she gasped, finally, stammering out the words. "I was using psycho and I didn't _know―"_

"Lord, girl, that stuff will ruin you," Three Dog snorted.

"I _know,"_ she muffled, covering her face. _"I know."_

"Well, _hell,"_ he sighed. "Since I got you here, how about you tell me about what's gone on. I heard some rumors about an attempted coup of the purifier, right before the Enclave showed up down there."

Clara nodded, and hiccuped out another sob. "It was all _my_ fault!" she moaned. _"I_ let Mister Burke take charge―"

"Calm down," he told her, and patted her on the shoulder. "Come on, you can tell me about it, and then hie yourself out there to deal with the dish. I'll help, kid."

"I'm a _good person,_ I really _am!"_ she moaned, her sleeves a sickening mess of snot and damp fabric.

How many tears could one girl produce? Three Dog showed her to the table and sat with her, watching her slowly dissolve into a mess.

 _Guess I'll find out, then._


	3. The Uglies

Clara crouched at the Metro entrance, wiping blood from her face. Three Dog was right, this place was full of all kinds of horrible things. She looked over her sledgehammer, sighing. The wooden handle was splintered, about to break. Didn't know where she could find another one, either. And she didn't want to use a _gun―_

Maybe she ought to look into that Underworld place, even though she was _super_ nervous about meeting a bunch of ghouls―Clara knew it wasn't fair, that Mister Burke wasn't every other ghoul in the world―but she still remembered how crazy he'd been, how scared of him she'd been, how bad he'd acted. It made her feel sad and upset, to remember. To be reminded of how _bad_ she'd been.

She needed to get somewhere safe and figure out how to fix the hammer, or find _another_ one, or something _else._ It wasn't good to be in the wastes without a weapon; she'd been there, before, before she found the sledgehammer in an abandoned building while on her way to Tenpenny for the first time. A pang of pain in her chest echoed. She remembered Megaton.

But _this_ area... it wasn't a safe place. She could hear the low voices of Super Mutants above her as she pressed herself into the metal gate of the Metro. She had to get out of here, had to keep moving. Even without a weapon.

Clara moved forward slowly, looking around. The place where the dish was, it was right in front of her, but it was full of more Super Mutants than she could handle. She needed to find the History place, get into it. It would be safer, she hoped.

She glanced up over the wall and shrieked, jerking backward in fright. There was one of the mutants, right _there!_

 _"HUUUMANNNN!"_ it yelled, lifting a weapon over its head. Clara darted up the stairs and out of the Metro entrance. Ran across the dirt and the boards set into the dug-out areas, not stopping for anything.

Couldn't stop―a bullet tore into her leg, making her fall flat on her face. She yelped and hit the ground, then rolled into the trenches, landing in a pile at the bottom. Clara whimpered in pain, pushing herself up. They would come after her, for sure. She had to keep moving, even if she was limping.

She trailed a hand along the dirt wall for support, making her way through the trench, looking at her Pip-Boy and trying to figure out which way she should head. She could hear them yelling, see the bullets pinging off the boards and dirt around her. Clara swallowed a lump of pain and fear and pushed herself up the wooden ramp onto the other side of the Mall.

Just ahead of her she could see someone wearing leather armor―she moved closer, could see it was a ghoul―she pushed all the fear away and tried to yell out at the woman, to get her attention.

A loud crack sounded. Clara grunted in pain. A Super Mutant had come up behind her with a nail board. The thing slapped it across her shoulder blade, sharp spikes of pain erupting where she'd been impaled. The ghoul watched her, impassively, smoking a cigarette.

Clara ignored the pain, gripped her sledgehammer tightly, and wound up. With one massive heave, she slammed it into the chin of the mutant, knocking it backward. The head of the sledgehammer flew off into the sky, off into a trench. Clara gritted her teeth and threw down the handle, then started punching out at the monster. It doubled over in pain as she put both fists into its stomach.

 _"Go AWAY!"_ she shrieked, slamming a fist into its head as it reeled from the first punch. The mutant grunted and groaned in pain as she hit it repeatedly, mashing its face into a pulp. Clara kept shrieking, punching out, until it stopped moving.

She stood there for a moment, her chest heaving with effort, worn out from having to kill it with her bare fists. She looked up― _two more were coming_ ―she panted out a gasp and limped back toward the ghoul.

 _"Where is Underworld?"_ she yelled, feeling the blood gushing from her leg.

The ghoul threw away her cigarette, raised an assault rifle, and jerked her head back at a door set into the building, all without a word. She began to fire on the mutants, as Clara hit the door running.

She fell headfirst over a counter top and sprawled onto the floor below, wincing in pain. That wasn't how she'd _wanted_ it to go―Clara sighed, fumbling for her pack, looking through the pockets with swollen and busted hands. There was blood everywhere, _sheesh,_ she was gonna have a hard time cleaning it out of her suit.

After she'd injected a stimpak and sat there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do, she stood up and shouldered her pack. Slowly, she made her way toward a huge skull on the wall, the wide set of doors beneath it.

Before she entered, she stopped and took a deep breath, then gagged a little. Burning things and the same weird smell she remembered from―Clara's legs wobbled a little. She had to get over the fear―just _had_ to. Not every ghoul was like _Mister Burke―_

Some of them were like Gob, who _she'd_ _killed_ ―she choked back a sob. It was _never_ going to go away. The only thing she could do was to face it―or go back to to using med-x to _forget―_

Clara shuddered to herself. Even though she'd forgotten her troubles then, it only led to more and _more._ She didn't think using med-x would help her, not one _bit._

With a stubborn look on her face, Clara pushed open the doors to Underworld and stepped inside.

* * *

It took her a moment to adjust to the darkness, but in that moment one of the ghouls came up to her and caught her attention. "Wow, a smoothskin, heh," he started, staring her up and down. "We don't get too many of your kind down here in Underworld."

Clara flushed a little. She didn't remember what "smoothskin" meant, but then it hit her, and she felt stupid. "Hello," she said, nervously. _"Um._ I'm... I'm Clara." She extended a hand to him, hoping he wouldn't take it.

"Polite," he said, smiling in a lopsided way. "Well, keep that up and I don't think we'll have much problem with you. I'm Winthrop, by the way." He touched her hand and dropped his back to his side. Clara breathed a little easier, once that was out of the way.

"I'll be on my best behavior, Mr. Winthrop," she said, quietly.

He chuckled with that raspy voice that still made shivers run down her spine. "Good, good. You need directions around town?"

"No... _well..."_ She sighed, and rubbed her hands against each other. "My hammer broke..."

Winthrop nodded and pointed at a door off to the side. "Try Tulip. She ought to have something to suit you."

"Thank you," Clara said, and walked off quickly.

Tulip turned out to be a lot more friendly than Clara thought she would be, chatting away in her ear as she looked through her stuff. Eventually Clara found a police baton that was better than nothing. She swung it, half-heartedly, and turned back to the woman ghoul. "Um," she said, and scratched her head. "I guess I'll take this."

Tulip sold her the baton and offered her a copy of a book she'd found in the closet of her little store. Clara took the book without a word, and stepped back out into the little town. Well... she didn't have much money. And a police baton wasn't gonna take care of those Super Mutants outside. She really didn't know what she was gonna do, and it made her upset.

Clara drifted through the place, looking around and trying to think. It was about an hour before she sat down against the far wall and put her head in her hands, and tried not to cry.

"Aw, now, what's the _matter,_ hon?" one of the ghouls said, and she jerked upright, staring to her left. A ghoul wearing a styled wig and a fancy outfit was sitting there, holding a pair of scissors and looking over at her through sunglasses.

"I don't know what I'm going to _do,"_ she mumbled, wiping her face. "I don't have any money―and-and I'm not _good_ enough to do what I was supposed to!" She cried into her hands, noisily.

The ghoul tutted. "What's your name, beautiful? Snowflake." He tapped his forehead.

"I'm C-Clara," she answered, shakily.

"Good name," he said, and she heard the scissors snap shut. "...There ain't much to do 'round here, 'less you wanna get high," he said, thoughtfully. "Especially for stylists like myself. None of these guys have much hair to bother with."

"Stylist," she echoed, as a question.

"I cut _hair,_ hon." She looked up at him and he was smiling that weird ghoul smile. Without lips to define his features, it was a little terrible. Not as bad as Mister Burke had been, though. And his wig was silly, sitting atop his ruined head looking perfect. Clara relaxed a little, giving him a small smile.

"I know a barber," she said, softly.

"Not a good one, if he's let you run around with that mop," Snowflake said, scoffing at her head. "I'll do it for free, if you want. Don't get much chance to work on a full head any more."

Clara ran a hand over her hair. "I dunno," she said, nervously.

"And," Snowflake added, standing up, "we can talk about what's got you so rattled."

Clara reluctantly agreed to let him style her hair. They talked―mostly it was him, talking―and she explained she was trying to get into the Museum of Technology across the way. "But I can't get through the mutants," she said, sadly. "My hammer broke and I can't just _punch_ my way through." She showed him her hands where she'd punched the mutant to death, and the scars that formed there after the stimpak took effect.

"Well," he said, snipping away happily, "you could try asking Quinn to help you―" he paused. "Or maybe Ahzrukhal knows someone. He's up in the Ninth Circle." He jabbed a thumb up to the higher level of Underworld.

"Maybe," Clara said, softly. "I don't know what else to do."

"You watch yourself with Ahzrukhal, now. He's not exactly the... _cleanest_ of folk." Snowflake stood back from her, and smiled. "There. What do you think? I call it 'the Seductress'."

She ran a hand along her head, feeling the new cut. "Feels the same..." She flushed. "I'm sorry. Thank you, Mr. Snowflake."

"It's a _little_ different," Snowflake said, sounding a bit miffed. "Not as messy, at least!"

Clara reddened. "I-I didn't mean to be rude―"

He chuckled. "It's okay, hon, I ain't upset. Go on, try it out. And good luck." He waved her off.

* * *

Clara rubbed her arms and took another― _regretted_ ―deep breath before she entered the Ninth Circle. She might not _ever_ get used to the smell.

The bar was the same as the rest of Underworld. Crumbling walls, funny stink of decay, the strong smell of people crowded together. Clara remembered how bad people could be in the Vault, and she ignored the smells, focused on what was in front of her.

It was almost the same as the Muddy Rudder, but everyone was ghouls. A tall scary-looking one was against the wall, staring at her, and she looked away quickly. Her eyes met and caught the one behind the bar, and she stepped forward to meet him.

"Um," she started. "Are you... Ahzrukhal?"

"I am," he said, and Clara grabbed the edge of the bar. Oh, he sounded _just_ like Mister Burke had―

"I need help," she said, in a low and shaking voice.

The ghoul's eyes lit up, and his face creased into a horrible grin that made her legs feel like jelly. "That, I can arrange," he said, far too friendly. Clara fought a shiver. "Sit down, we'll talk _business."_

So Clara sat, and hoped she wasn't about to get into more trouble―


	4. A Contest

The smoothskin with a brand-new haircut on top of a dirty face and bloodied Vault suit had walked in and shied away from Charon. He was briefly amused by that. A lot of ghouls were downright scared of him, but the smoothskins had the necessary facial elements to provide him with an accurate judge of just how frightening he could be.

It pleased him. Simple things like that.

Being scary was about all he had to _do_ for fun.

Charon watched her walk across the bar and approach Ahzrukhal, who immediately picked up on the girl's fright. Charon narrowed his eyes at his employer, but lost interest after a moment or two. Smoothskins in the Ninth Circle only came for one thing, and that was Ahzrukhal's special inventory.

They were amusing with their scared faces, but when they were high they were the same as every other skell that floated like trash through the bar. Charon could not count how many nights he had spent watching these idiots drink themselves to near-death, or shoot up and inhale the rancid shit that Ahzrukhal was more than willing to overcharge them for.

The girl's voice carried in the bar, though. Charon turned his head back to the counter, watching her speak. She hesitated, frequently. Nervous energy came right off her, her hands trembling and voice low in pitch, eyes glistening like she wanted to cry. Scared of ghouls? Maybe. Brave enough to come into a whole damn town full of them, though.

Charon could respect that. Girl looked tough. Under the bloodied sleeves of her Vault suit, he could tell she was packing guns. It did not make much sense that she would carry a baton, though. Not with that upper body.

He kept his eyes moving. Ahzrukhal never bothered him unless he had something he specifically wanted done, but he could not risk his employer noticing him looking at the girl. If Charon was watching her, it meant she was a concern; which meant she might be ejected from the bar. Given her frightened attitude and what she was asking, Charon did not think she would appreciate her efforts going to waste because he was simply interested in her.

It amused him that Ahzrukhal trusted his judgement when it came to threats. He curled up his mouth in a grimace. There had been plenty of moments when no threat was visible, but Charon was ordered to maim. Or kill. It was not so amusing to have to murder a bar patron or two for the whims of the slimy bartender.

"Charon, get over here," Azhrukhal ordered, his eyes locked onto the smoothskin.

Charon obeyed, pushing himself from the wall and moving to the bar. He stood and watched the other ghoul, waiting for an order. The girl glanced at him and looked down quickly.

"Clara has a proposition and I think it's going to be rather amusing to watch." Ahzrukhal leaned onto his hands on the counter. "Take a seat, Charon."

It was not amusing for him to see the delight that danced across the ghoul's eyes, but he sat. The contract bound him to Ahzrukhal until the bastard decided to sell it off, or Charon died. He kept his gaze leveled on Ahzrukhal.

 _"Well,_ Clara?" The bartender looked to her. She nodded, stiffly, and moved behind the bar, laying her elbow on the counter, and holding her hand out flat toward Charon.

An arm-wrestling contest. Charon made no move, watching his employer. Ahzrukhal motioned to him to engage the girl in the feat. Charon grumbled under his breath but leaned his elbow down, and flattened his hand out near to hers.

"Best of three, yes?" Ahzrukhal asked her.

The girl nodded, again stiffly, breathing shallowly and quickly. She had her eyes on Charon's hand, looking for all the world like she wanted to be anywhere but where she was.

"You ready, Charon?" Ahzrukhal looked amused as all hell, his hand on his chin and his face lit up with a nasty smile.

"Yes," he replied. What the point of this was, he could not say. He could only obey.

"Very well. Clara, on you."

The girl breathed out in a gush and grabbed Charon's hand, holding him shakily, then more firmly. Charon did not met her eyes, but moved his gaze to her hand on his. She was trembling, her skin warm against his. Her other hand moved behind her back, as she bent slightly over the counter. She would lose the first round.

Charon's hand gripped hers tighter, squeezing the exposed fingers, bringing a small "eep" from her. She turned her big blue eyes onto him in surprise, and blinked a few times.

"Go," Ahzrukhal said. Charon immediately put her knuckles to the counter, probably slamming them down a little harder than necessary. She made a pained noise and face, staring down at her hand. It went loose in Charon's hand, and he released her for the time being. Moved his elbow back into position for another round.

"You sure about this, Clara?" Ahzrukhal asked. "I'll let you back out, if you want."

The girl wiggled her fingers, flexing her arm, and shot the bartender a stubborn glance. "No, thank you," she said. "I can do this." She set her elbow down, fixed her eyes on Charon's face, and pressed her lips together. "Let's go."

This time, when she grabbed his hand, it was different. She anchored her elbow and gripped his fingers without the trepidation she had shown before. Charon responded in kind, ready for the next round of this inane exercise. The girl might have muscles, but she would undoubtedly lose. She could not hope to stand against Charon, who was more heavily built.

"Go," Ahzrukhal said. Charon tensed his arm but felt the opposing force of her arm against his, pushing him down. He held his own for a second or two before she cracked his hand into the counter top, pressing his knuckles into the decaying surface with impunity.

Charon's eyes stayed on the sight for a moment, before moving to Ahzrukhal. Of course he looked displeased. But he was also wearing a look of anger, which made Charon wonder what he had bet on this display.

Clara removed her hand and made a face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mess up the counter," she said, nervously.

Charon pried his hand from the top of the bar and noticed the impression. ...Perhaps she was stronger than he gave her credit for. His knuckles under the leather gloves were split. He moved his arm back to position for the third round, as the standing order went.

"Wait, now," Ahzrukhal said, laying a hand on the girl's as she moved into her own position. "Are you putting me on, smoothskin?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes.

"I don't know what you mean," she answered, her eyes level with his lapel. Charon waited patiently.

Ahzrukhal scoffed in disgust,moving away. She put her hand back to Charon's. The bartender rubbed his chin, staring at the hands for a moment. Finally he waved his hand and said, dismissively, _"Go."_

Charon's grip on hers was more fluid this round, for the blood in his glove. He could not stop her from slamming his knuckles into the counter again, even more quickly than the last. A splattering of blood from the fingers of his gloves accompanied the motion, splashing the three of them as she dented the counter top again.

It hurt, but it was no more painful than any minor injury should be. Charon withdrew his hand and removed the glove, examining his knuckles and seeing the damage. It really was more show than it appeared. He replaced his glove as the girl and Ahzrukhal spoke.

"I'm afraid I've lost," the ghoul said, taking a step closer to the girl. "I underestimated you, Clara."

"Okay," she said, staring at him.

"But, _well..."_ Ahzrukhal moved even closer, putting an arm around her far shoulder, shrugging to himself. "I'm afraid I _can't_ pay the agreed-upon price. You lied to me. You said you'd never done this before. And you injured my employee."

"But―" her eyes grew as wide as saucers. "But I _haven't!_ And you _promised―"_

"Promises in the wasteland, without paper to back them up, are as useless as guns without _bullets,_ my dear." Ahzrukhal's hand on her shoulder tightened. "Charon, remove this person from my bar."

He stood and reached over the bar to grab the girl by one arm, pulling her forward over the counter. She squeaked and her eyes filled up with tears, spilling onto her cheeks as Charon began to drag her over the counter and onto the other side. "But you said you'd give me his contract if I won!" she moaned, one hand moving to Charon's hand on her bicep.

"I _did,_ didn't I?" Ahzrukhal said, examining his hand casually.

Charon paused in his actions. If Ahzrukhal had bet her the contract that Charon would win, and now was attempting to get out of paying that to her―

She was his new owner, regardless of what the slimy bastard said.

He dropped the girl's arm and drew his shotgun, blowing the bartender's head right off his shoulders. _Damn._ That felt _great,_ taking care of that.

The girl shrieked and covered her ears, leaning away. She lost her balance and slipped over the edge of the counter, falling onto her face and chest as Charon loosed another round into Ahzrukhal's body. _For good measure,_ he told himself. _That kind would get up and say hello again unless one put a stake in his heart. Goddamn vampire._

Charon stared at the corpse for a moment, memorizing the detail, before turning to help the girl up from the floor. She jerked away from his outstretched hand, brain matter and blood speckling her brand new haircut and already-dirty face. _"No!"_ she said, recoiling in fear.

"You are my employer," Charon said, "and I will do as you command."

The girl put a hand to her heart, breathing heavily, and stared him down in fright and confusion. Charon stood a little straighter, putting away his shotgun, and stared back at her. It was tense for a moment, the whispers of ghouls around them bringing to their ears a gossip mill in action.

Finally the girl pushed herself upward and wiped her hands on her pants, making a face. She cleaned her cheeks of the lumpier bits of brain, shuddering. Charon waited patiently, until she began to move toward the door.

"Please don't get too close," she said, almost whispering, as they exited the Ninth Circle.

Charon nodded in response, and slowed his stride so that she was about ten feet ahead of him. She walked down the stairs, then turned to go into the store run by Tulip. He followed.

"Do you have any clothes, Tulip?" she called, softly.

Tulip turned to face her customer, and flinched as she saw Charon entering. He was used to that, ignored her. "I-I do," the ghoul woman answered. _"Goodne_ ―what happened to _you!"_

"Um," the girl said. "I won a contest."

 _"Some_ contest!" Tulip exclaimed, and showed her the clothes. Charon watched the girl looking over the threadbare garments, fingering the sleeves, before picking up a simple outfit that offered little more protection than she was already wearing.

"I'll trade you this Vault suit," she said, touching her collar. "And a few caps."

"Sure thing," Tulip said. She made a strangled noise as the girl immediately began to undress.

She either had no shame or just did not care. Charon watched her strip out of the Vault suit and shimmy into the tank top and cargo pants, then pull on the boots. Tulip kept her head turned in politeness. Charon did not care what the smoothskin did. Had seen it all before, though not so recently that his memory could not use a refresher.

"Thank you, Tulip," she said, handing over the caps and suit.

Charon followed her as she left the Concourse, navigating the entryway and pausing before the door. She rubbed her shoulder and reached out for the door, slowly. Charon cleared his throat, causing her to jerk in surprise. She looked back at him, wide-eyed.

"If we are to enter combat, should I use a melee weapon?" he asked, deadpan.

She swallowed, and blinked at him. "No," she said, after a second or two. "Please use your shotgun."

Charon nodded, and she turned back to the door. He drew his shotgun and checked the drum, walking behind her.

The girl seemed innocent, acting polite and not understanding the double-cross at the bar. But she had busted his knuckles once she knew his strength, which told to him that she understood more than she let on. He did not know quite what to make of her, yet.

It should, at least, be more amusing than scaring a bunch of jet-addled skells in a dive bar, he thought.

He followed her out of the door, maintaining the distance she desired.


	5. New Friend

Clara was nervous, but not because of the tall ghoul she'd won in the arm-wrestling contest―she bit her lip, thinking about Ahzrukhal and how this one had shot him without any warning―she was nervous because her clothes were uncomfortable, she had a very poor weapon, and she could see just how many Super Mutants were waiting for her in the area outside of the museum.

Quickly, she glanced over at the bodyguard ghoul―Charon, his name was―and back to the mutants. "I think we should just run across as fast as possible and try to get into the technology place," she whispered, pulling her baton from her side.

He stared out over the trenches, then looked back to her with the little stick, and nodded. Clara moved out toward the opposite side then, and tried not to think about how _dumb_ she felt.

A few minutes later, she pushed herself into the wall of the museum on the other side, panting from hard running and dodging. Charon was close behind her, his shotgun up and teeth bared, growling at the mutants that were following them, shooting at them repeatedly.

They wouldn't _give up!_ Clara felt her arm where a round had bitten into her, hissing in pain. _At least they were bad shots,_ she thought. She looked up and saw one of the mutants coming at them with a sledgehammer―and she brought the baton up, setting her feet.

 _It's just like anything else in the wastes,_ she told herself. _It will die if I hit it hard enough._ But her hands shook in fear, the fear of the pain she'd suffered before and the pain she knew would always come from fighting off the things that wanted to kill her. It would _never_ be any different, out here, and she _had_ to learn to do this without the psycho to make her worry-free. Using drugs would only get her into _trouble―_

Clara lifted her arm and struck out against the Super Mutant, hearing the clanking noise of the ghoul's shotgun as he shot at it, feeling her muscles straining to come down on the thing's arm. The mutant dropped the sledge at the impact, making an awful noise of pain. She raised her arm again, but the thing's head suddenly exploded in a shower of blood.

She looked to see Charon reloading, and then down at the bloody mess in front of her. After a second or two she leaned down and pulled the hammer out from under the body, looking it over. It was solid metal, fancy-looking. Heavy. She smiled a little. This was a much better weapon than the baton.

"C'mon," she whispered at the ghoul, pulling the door to the Museum open. "Let's go get that dish."

Charon grunted out a yes and followed behind her.

* * *

The inside of the museum had a few more mutants, but nothing her fancy new hammer couldn't handle. She found herself feeling a little more confident, whirling her way through the combat and smashing up the bad guys. Charon's shotgun clanked and banged away at them, making her feel even _more_ confident.

She stopped before they went into the Vault display, and took a short break. Clara leaned against the wall and looked up at Charon, moving her eyes over his blank expression.

"I'm sorry I had to hurt you, back there," she said, feeling sad. "Ahzrukhal said I could do whatever I wanted, to try to win."

Charon's eyes met hers, and she fought the urge to shiver. He wasn't that much like Mister Burke, but the coldness of his eyes was frightening on its own. "He expected you would not win," Charon stated, the raspy voice leaving his throat loudly.

Clara nodded, slowly. "Why... why did you shoot him?"

"Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded." He looked down at his shotgun, then back up to her. "But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you."

Charon spoke without much emotion, leaving Clara to wonder what he really meant. She wasn't very good with... _sneaky_ talk. Hearing the message inside of the words. It was one of the reasons she'd never seen past Mister Burke, seen his _real_ badness. Charon made her nervous, but... she owned his contract, so he couldn't―

"Are you... did you live there long?" she asked, looking at his hands and thinking about the contest. He was right that Ahzrukhal was a rat. She didn't like the idea of Charon shooting him like he had, but she trusted the ghoul knew more about the other than she ever would.

"Do you wish me to provide conversation?" he replied.

"I just―" She shrugged, and tried to focus herself on his face. "Kind of," she said.

"Am I to call you Clara?" His ice-cold eyes bored into hers.

She shivered. "Yes, please," she said, looking away in embarrassment and fear.

"It would be best to delay conversation until the area is clear of threat, Clara," he said, gesturing to the display with his shotgun in his hands.

"Okay," she said, standing up.

They started through the exhibit, Clara stopping to look into each room and remember. She flicked the light on in the personal quarters, remembering that hers had been lonely without her dad or Amata around for company. She looked into the rec room and missed being able to watch holotapes with Amata until they both passed out on the floor from staying up too late. Finally, she looked in on the medical display, and leaned her forehead against it, a hand up and pressing her fingertips into the glass.

She closed her eyes and remembered her dad. All the times she'd never understood why it was that he'd done what he did by leaving, all the times she'd been frustrated by his inability to understand her own troubles. How she'd _betrayed_ him and let him get kidnapped.

Because that was what had _really_ happened. Mister Burke let her bring him to the tower so that he could take her dad prisoner, and used her to keep him from fighting back. And she'd... she gone along _with_ it, because she was too dumb to know different.

She wasn't sure if she'd gotten smarter or if she was just having an easier time getting the idea of things, now. She felt sad and terrible, but she felt a little smarter, now. Even if she couldn't figure out what to do, she still had managed to get herself a bodyguard and start working to finish her mom's dream of clean water.

Charon was grumbling behind her when she peeled herself from the grimy glass and continued on. Further into the museum, toward her goal.

* * *

They carried the dish back through the museum and Clara looked up at the Washington Monument. She entered the elevator, Charon following her without much other than some grumbling.

On the ride up, she turned and looked at him over the edge of the dish. "Are you angry?" she asked, frowning.

Charon turned his head to look at her. "No," he said, solidly.

"You keep making angry noises," she said, gripping the edge of the dish harder. "Going _'grmmm-grmmm'_ and stuff."

"It is dusty here," he replied, turning his head to watch the door.

"Okay," Clara said, and flushed. She didn't know what to say to him. He... definitely wasn't the same as Mister Burke, but he wasn't as friendly as Gob had been―her heart hurt again, and Clara blinked back tears.

She knew it was wron. Everyone who knew she'd done that to Megaton was treating her like a _monster._ Clara didn't like that―she was a good person, _really_ ―she sucked snot up into her head and tried to not burst out crying.

It wasn't _fair,_ that she'd been tricked, that Mister Burke had made her do those things. It wasn't her fault she was _dumb_ ―and she couldn't be any smarter without the help of the drugs that had gotten her into trouble. She didn't know _what to do―_

Clara wished Butch had come with her. She could use a hug, right now. She put the dish on the floor of the elevator and wiped her face on the bottom of her shirt, fighting a sob. Charon made another grumbling noise, and the door to the elevator opened.

Once the dish was in position, Clara looked around the monument and eyed the mattress on the floor. She was pretty tired, but she didn't want to be rude to Charon. He might need to sleep, too. She turned to him and cleared her throat, bringing his attention to her instantly.

"Are you tired?" she asked, carefully.

"I do not need sleep," he replied, blankly.

"Okay," she said, rubbing her eyes. It _was_ dusty here, like he'd said. "I'm a little sleepy," she added, lamely.

"Nap, then." Charon leaned against the pillar and held his shotgun loosely.

"Okay," she repeated, lowering herself to the mattress. "When I get up, we'll go back to Galaxy News and tell Three Dog the dish is up."

Charon grunted out a yes and Clara laid her head down on her arms. She blinked back tears again, waiting for her eyes to close.

Just like every day since her dad died, she cried herself to sleep.

* * *

Three Dog greeted her more warmly this time, excited to have his radio station back to normal. Clara was surprised at the difference in his attitude, and wrung her hands together as he explained to her that she already had clearance to get into the Citadel.

"Heard it from up top, myself," he said, patting her shoulder. "Sarah came through, looking for you, after you were off to get the dish. Not that I don't appreciate the help, Clara."

She sighed. "Okay," she said, nervously. "Um. So I can just go to the Citadel?"

"Should be able to waltz right up inside," Three Dog answered, smiling. "But, for now―why not sit a spell, chew off my ear again? I've got enough food for all of us, and you look beat as hell, girl."

Clara frowned, and blinked blankly at the room. "I need to finish my dad's work," she said, her fingers working around themselves.

"You have the time," Three Dog said. He gestured at the room. "Find yourself a bed and get some real sleep, and have a meal. Respite like this is hard to find, in the wastes."

"But..." Clara sighed again. "Thank you, Three Dog," she said.

"You never said what happened to that Mister Burke character," Three Dog added, pressed a hand gently against her back.

Charon grumbled. Clara looked up at him, and pulled away from Three Dog. "He _died,"_ she said, firmly.

" _'He died'_ after he turned into a ghoul, captured you and your friend, and tried to kill you both?" The deejay snorted. "Just like _that?"_

Clara felt her temper rising, and tried to fight it. "I beat his head in with my sledgehammer!" she said, testily. "Is that what you want to hear? I _had_ to kill him! He was trying to kill Butch!" Her hands curled into fists and shook.

 _"Whoa,_ now, calm down," Three Dog held his up in a defensive way. "Don't bite off my head."

Clara flushed. Embarrassed, she turned away. "I'm sorry," she said. "I―I have to _go."_ She started down the stairs.

"Don't be a stranger, Clara," Three Dog called out, as she opened the door.

"Goodbye," she said, quietly.


	6. Broad Side of a Barn

"Enclave crawling _all_ over the damn place, and we're stuck here?" Knight Captain Dusk grumbled under her breath, aiming her rifle down the range. "I don't _like_ it." She squeezed the trigger on the rifle and fired, neatly taking the left eye of the dummy out.

Paladin Glade made an appreciative noise, watching her at practice. He leaned on the cinder blocks piled up outside of the range, smirking. "You're a frightening woman, Dusk. Anyone ever tell you that?"

She didn't reply, just picked off the right eye of the dummy, grumbling under her breath. Glade stared out after her shots, shaking his head. "I wouldn't wanna cross you, is all I'm _sayin',"_ he muttered.

Lyons' Pride was on downtime, waiting for further orders. Dusk might get twitchy when she wasn't on a mission or, hell, even in active combat, but Glade knew the finer points of relaxing. And he was _lazy._ He grinned to himself. Knew his business in battle, but when you had a chance to sit down, he would take it.

Wasn't _stupid._ Just knew the pain of aching knees trying to keep up with the young kids like the irascible Dusk and that weirdo Gallows, and even the tireless Sarah. Glade had to lug around his loves, his big guns, all the time, and he _still_ kept up with them. Didn't mean it wasn't painful or annoying at times.

Across the yard, Sarah was talking with Elder Lyons. She'd been looking for that kid from the Vault, after running into her down by Galaxy News Radio. Glade wished he'd been down there; from the rumors they'd all heard, the kid was some kind of monster, and he would have jumped at the chance to squash that sort of bug.

But, _eh._ Downtime was just as good. Dusk muttered a few curses under her breath and complained that her aim was off by a few inches.

"Are you kidding? A couple of inches? So you get the nose instead of the eye. Who cares?" Glade scratched his neck, annoyed. Cut himself shaving that morning, and the cut was itching like crazy.

The door to the bailey opened, admitting a tall ghoul and a short little wastelander with a very nice body. Glade's attention was held on the sight for a moment, before he wondered who the kid was. Watched them approach Elder Lyons.

By the reaction of Sarah, he guessed it was that kid she was looking for. She got animated, waving her hands around in exaggerated motions, talking loudly. The words carried across the yard, and Glade shrugged to himself. _Might as well check it out._

He ambled over to the group, placing himself nearby but not interrupting. Sarah and Elder Lyons were discussing what had gone on at the purifier, the Enclave taking over the memorial. Neither one was happy about it, obviously enough. Glade pretended to be casual, looking at his hand and examining the fittings of his armor.

"My dad said we needed a G.E.C.K.?" the kid was asking. Glade's ear perked up at the sound of her voice. _Damn._ She was _cute._ Innocent way of talking and that _body_ ―he looked up and away, trying to stop himself from smiling. Hell, there wasn't much _else_ to think about, when he wasn't in combat. And he'd never struck out, when he'd tried.

Elder Lyons explained the situation and invited her into the Citadel to talk further. Glade made his way across the yard to the A Ring door, holding it open for the Elder and the others. He smiled widely down on the kid as she passed through, shooting him a nervous glance with some seriously pretty blue eyes.

Glade watched her walking down the stairwell and appreciated that sometimes, in life, you were given a view that you just _had_ to embrace.

Ah, but that just made him grin even wider and follow after them.

* * *

Her name was Clara. Yeah, she was that kid from the Vault that everyone had been on about. Destroying a town with an undetonated bomb, working with Talon Company, helping her dad at the purifier and letting the Enclave take over. Her reputation was a little more than bad, with all that. But after watching the kid in the lab and hearing her talk―hell, he didn't know if she was _capable_ of doing all that on her own.

There was definitely something wrong with her. Dumb as a box of bricks, hot as them baking in the sun. World wasn't fair to give her _that_ body with such a low intelligence. Like she was set up to fail.

Elder Lyons was a little less than sympathetic at first, but Sarah picked up on the problem right away and set the bar a little lower. The girl was definitely as dumb as that box of bricks, unable to follow the technical terms being thrown at her. There was no way in hell she'd rigged a bomb to blow, like they'd said. It just wasn't _possible._

Any thought Glade had about squashing the girl like a bug, fully vanished into thin air when she started to cry. Elder Lyons offered his condolences to her for her father dying, and that just solidified it. Couldn't be as bad as the rumors made her out to be, crying like she was over her dad's death and moaning about how it was all _her_ fault. Sarah went so far as to put an arm around her shoulder, to try to console her.

Clara didn't want to talk much, after that. Kept her replies to short sentences, trying to explain why she'd come back after ducking out on Dr. Li and her group. Glade stood behind the group, watching with an amused smile on his face. The ghoul didn't say anything, but grumbled under his breath on occasion, and Clara pretty much ignored that he was there. She focused on Sarah, her eyes glittering in the lights of the lab, staring up at her like she was an angel or something.

It was adorable, really, watching her put the puppy dog eyes on Sarah. Glade wondered what the kid was up to, how she'd garnered such a bad rep, but it really didn't matter. She was easy enough pickings for the wastes with that idiot affect. Probably wouldn't be able to track down this G.E.C.K. like Rothschild and them were mentioning, anyway.

Someone mentioned a computer and Clara walked off to find it, leaving her ghoul to wait with the others. Glade waited until she well away before moving to catch up with her.

"Hey, there," he said, ducking under the wires running along the bottom of the higher walkways. She jerked in fright and turned to face him, eyes wide in surprise. She relaxed slowly, but watched him cautiously.

"Hello," she said, putting her hands together in front of her. "Um."

"Paladin Glade," he said, tapping his chest.

"Do you―" she looked back at the others, then at him. "Should I call you Paladin, or Glade, or―"

"My name's Ed, but I'd prefer Glade, if you don't mind," he answered, smiling at her.

"Mr. Glade," she said, sticking out a hand to shake his. "I'm Clara."

He laughed, took the hand, and shook hers enthusiastically. "You are _nothing_ like the gossip says," he remarked.

Clara flushed attractively, and looked down, dropping his hand. "I-I hope so," she said, quietly.

"Well," he said, scratching at his neck again, _damn_ the itchy thing, "When you've finished this business with Rothschild, I was thinking I could show you around the Citadel. Get you familiar with the place. I'm sure you'll be around here a lot more, in the future."

Clara opened and closed her mouth, blinking rapidly at the floor. "Um," she said, wringing her hands together. _"I―"_

"Why are you so nervous?" Glade raised an eyebrow at her. He held up his hands. "I won't bite. _Promise."_

"Um," she said, reddening further and putting a hand up to her mouth, covering it briefly before dropping her hand again. "I'm just―people are acting like―like I'm a _bad_ guy." She looked real sad. Like, _let me give you a hug and make it all better,_ sad. "I'm _not_ a bad guy," she whispered, closing her eyes.

 _Good God._ He'd be lying if the girl's whole act didn't make him want to wrap her up in a bear hug... among other things he might imagine, to try and make her feel better. She tugged at his heartstrings, something bad. No wonder Sarah had dumbed down her words and talked a little more gently around her.

"Pretty sure I just said you _weren't,"_ he said, referring to his gossip comment. "Ah, don't let them bother you. All that can be changed, with time."

Clara nodded, slowly. "It _can,"_ she agreed. She smiled a little. "Thank you."

"No problem," Glade said, putting an elbow out to lean on a metal support. "So, can I show you around? No one will bother you, when I'm around. Promise."

"I'd... like that, I think," she said, turning her blues on him. He smiled down at her. "After I figure out what the computer says..." she flushed again. _"If_ I can."

"I can help you with that, too, if you want," he suggested. Rosy cheeks on her face, _hell._ Made him want to help, even _if_ he didn't plan to get something out of it.

She looked up and smiled wider, her face lit up in relief and happiness. "You can?"

 _Damn!_ "Yeah, I'm bored anyway," Glade said, and put his hand on her shoulder, moving with her toward the computer. "And I'm pretty good at computers."

"I'm not," she said, sadly. "I always mess up the... what do you call it. The _disk?"_

"I would ask how you manage that one, but I don't think you want to talk about that," he chuckled. He changed the subject quickly. "Hey, I like your sledgehammer. Bet you've knocked some scumbag skulls with that."

"It's new," she replied, walking a little more easily, less tensed. "I got it off a Super Mutant."

"Damn Uglies," Glade said, shaking his head. "One less baddie in the world, _huh?"_

"Yeah," she agreed. She stopped in front of the computer and hesitated, one hand out to touch it. "Um."

Glade took over, powering on the screen and looking back at her. "What are you looking for, now?"

"Rothschild said..." she scrunched up her face as she thought. "One of the Vaults has this G.E.C.K. thing and I need to see if the computer knows."

"Alright." His fingers flew over the keys, then brought up a listing of the Vaults and their specifications. Clara peered over his shoulder, her breath on his ear warm. She was standing awfully close to him, and it had an effect on him he knew how to hide from years of practice.

Didn't mean he didn't _like_ the feeling. She was very, _very_ nice. Skittish like a mole rat but easy to get along with. And those love apples she was smuggling under the extremely thin tank top she was wearing, hoo _boy._ He was sure as _hell_ appreciating the view.

"This is the list of Vaults," he said, gesturing at the screen. Clara reached out her hand and hovered it over the keys, finally choosing one. The screen flickered, then went black.

She made a surprised squeak and backed up, covering her face. _"Oh, no,"_ she said, muffling her voice.

Glade fought a laugh, hitting the same button again. "Here, look, it's not broken," he teased. "C'mon, I'll look through the list for you."

She wiped her eyes and stared at the screen as he went through each one, stopping at the listing for Vault 87. "There it is," he said, tapping the screen. "Better let Rothschild know."

"I will. _Thank_ you," she said, softly.

"No problem, Clara," he smiled back at her. "I'll wait over here till you're done, okay?"

"Okay," she practically whispered, then slowly walked back to the Scribe, looking down at her Pip-Boy and scrunching up her face again.

 _Now, Glade, that there is an opportunity you just can't miss,_ he told himself, watching her walk away. He grinned to himself, ran a hand through his hair, and scratched his neck again.

 _It couldn't be easier to hit the broad side of a barn!_


	7. The Tour

"How about you let your ghoul friend go down to the mess and find some food?" Glade asked her, jerking a thumb back at Charon. They were standing in the lab area, still. Clara had wrapped up the business with Rothschild and knew where she needed to go, but it was _so_ far away... She was nervous about heading out to that end of the wasteland, again. Hadn't been there since well before her dad died.

She looked back at Charon, standing silently behind her in the gloomy lab, and bit her lip, debating on what to do. A bodyguard couldn't be a bodyguard if he wasn't around her, all the time―but then, she hadn't seen Charon get any food or sleep since she woke up on top of the Washington Monument, and he had to be getting tired and hungry.

Not that he'd shown it. The trip up the shore toward the Citadel had been eventful and he still kept up with her without showing any signs of stopping. "Yeah, okay," she agreed, and turned to Charon. "Do you want to go eat?" she asked, looking up at him.

Charon turned his eyes onto hers, without any expression. They almost glowed in the darkness, and it made her nervous. "Do you wish me to acquire food?" he asked, pointedly.

"I guess, yeah," she said, flushing. Still wasn't used to giving orders to him. Didn't feel right to make him do things like that. It wasn't really in her nature, to be bossy. _Maybe that's why I didn't do so good with Butch around,_ she thought, and bit her lip again.

"Then I will acquire food," he said, still staring at her. "When you require me again, I will be in the mess hall."

"Thank you," Clara said, and waited for him to walk away before turning back to Glade. "Um."

"He's a weird one," Glade said, scratching at his neck. Clara's gaze was drawn to the movement, then flicked back onto his bright blue eyes. "Not that I've seen too many ghouls willing to follow a human around. Usually stick to their own kind."

Clara frowned. "They're human beings, _too,"_ she said, defensively.

Glade blinked and smiled with one half of his mouth. "Yeah, you're right, sorry. We don't see them a lot, unless they're taking potshots at the Super Mutants down in the Mall."

"Charon is very good with his shotgun," she said, for lack of something better.

"I'll _bet,"_ Glade replied, dryly. "Alright, so, where do you want to go first? There's the bailey out there, you didn't get much of a look at that."

Clara smiled, hesitantly. "Okay," she said. "Let's go there."

Glade showed her up to the bailey, explaining the training stations to her. She watched Paladin Gunny yelling at the recruits, wincing at how tough he was. Glade explained that he had to be tough with them.

"Most of the recruits are locals who want the safety that the Brotherhood offers," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Not a _lick_ of combat readiness in the lot."

"Mm-hmm," she said, trying not to agree or disagree. She didn't really know―when she had come out of the Vault, she hadn't known anything about fighting besides her fistfights with the Tunnel Snakes. She'd never been trained by a proper teacher, like Gunny.

"Anyway, we take 'em in and make them into soldiers. If they're _lucky,_ they don't die the first two weeks out," he added darkly, staring over her head at the target practice going on. "I heard Reddin died out there, fighting that big Ugly at Galaxy News Radio. She was a promising recruit. It's a damn shame."

Clara remembered what had happened as she came to the radio station, and looked down. When the behemoth burst onto the court, she'd screamed at the top of her lungs and flew into cover, and Reddin―who she'd heard arguing with the other soldiers, and saw run out into the fray―had been crushed. Clara felt guilty for that―maybe she could have helped her, or stopped the big mutant from killing her―

She sniffled and wiped tears from her face. Glade looked over at her and made a "tut" noise. "Don't be sad, now. Reddin will go down in the scrolls as a Paladin. That's a great honor."

Clara sighed and sucked snot up into her head, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. "She's still _dead,_ though," she whispered. "I could have _helped_ her."

"You can't help everyone, Clara," Glade said, patting her on the shoulder. "Reddin was always a little too gung-ho. She was bound to get herself hurt. Vargas is probably beating himself up for her dying, and he should be. Not you. You're a local, and it's not your job to keep us alive." He bent his head down to try to catch her eyes. "Vargas should have done better."

"Doesn't _matter,_ though," Clara said, wiping her nose. "She still died, and I still could have done something."

"Them big-ass Uglies, _hell..."_ Glade let her shoulder go and ran a hand over his chin. "Glad we don't see all that many of em. They're tough to take down."

"What makes it happen?" Clara asked. "I mean... why do they get so _big?"_

Glade shrugged. "Hell if I know. I'm a Paladin. Ask a Scribe." He sounded a little annoyed.

"Maybe I will," she replied, and looked back at Gunny and his recruits. She sighed, sadly.

"Well, this is not at all the fun tour I was hoping to give," Glade said, putting an arm around her shoulder and pulling her away from the range. "Already got you crying, and all."

"I'm _sorry,"_ she mumbled. "Everything's just so sad."

Glade smiled down at her. "Think you need to relax, huh?"

"Hard to," she said, swallowing a dry lump in her throat.

"Ah, no, you just ain't met the right person to relax with," Glade said, smiling wider. "C'mon, I'll show you something _really_ neat."

Clara stumbled alongside the soldier, moving back into the Citadel. There wasn't much she could do right now to make herself feel better, about her dad's work and the upcoming journey across the wastes... and her sadness just kept getting _worse_ as time went on.

She wished she could be strong, like Sarah Lyons. Sarah was tough and _strong_ and she knew what to say, and how to say it, and she didn't have to think hard to know what she was doing. Clara wanted Sarah to like her, and she seemed like she did, but she was also treating Clara like her dad used to treat her when he wanted her to do as he said and not argue with him. Like a _child._

She wouldn't ever be as smart as Sarah. And she wasn't feeling all the great about being treated like she was dumb, even if she _was._ Glade wasn't treating her like that. He was being nice and helpful, even if she knew what he was after. Clara glanced up at him and flushed when she caught him staring at her. She knew what _that_ look meant, all too well.

Didn't know if she wanted... _that..._ again. Mister Burke―she fought a shiver. But Butch wasn't like him, and she'd enjoyed having fun with him. Glade seemed okay, if a little mean about people.

Clara wiped her nose again and entered the Citadel with Glade, trying not to think about it. Didn't want him to think she was thinking about it, either.

* * *

The "something neat" Glade wanted to show her turned out to be the Lyon's Den. Where the members of the Pride hung out when they needed sleep or food or just wanted to relax. Clara walked into the little eating area and was embarrassed by her stomach growling at the smell of food.

Glade laughed and served her up something that she couldn't figure out, but it tasted good and she didn't care. With so few caps, she wasn't going to turn down a free meal. He spun a fork in the air and jabbed at his food, playing with it like a little kid. Clara gave him a small smile, at him being silly.

"What was it like, living down in that Vault?" he asked, talking with his mouth full.

"It was..." Clara sighed. "It was _home."_ She missed it, terribly. Missed Amata and not having to worry about being attacked by anything other than radroaches, she even missed the Overseer and how mean he'd been to her. Her face fell.

Glade swallowed and put down his fork, leaning over and putting a hand on hers. "I understand," he said, seriously. "...Man, I'm not doing so good, keep making you sad. I'm a _bad_ tour guide."

"It's not your fault," Clara said, poking at her food. She suddenly didn't feel like eating, anymore. Her stomach flopped a little, anxiously reminding her she really _should_ eat. Hadn't had anything in a long while.

"I guess I better not quit my day job," he teased, smiling. Clara looked up at him, confused. Glade chuckled a little, looking up and away in exasperation. "I mean being a Paladin," he said.

"Oh," she said, turning back to her food. "Guess not."

"Don't like seeing you all down like this," he said, moving his chair so he was closer. "What's the matter, babe?"

Clara looked up again and sighed. "I―" she fought emotion again. _"I don't know,"_ she said, bursting into tears. She covered her face and leaned forward, feeling ashamed.

Glade made a funny noise, then moved her chair toward him by picking it up and turning it. "Listen, Clara," he said, gently. _"Everyone_ has bad days, and some of us have bad _lives._ Yours is barely beginning, here. No need to be so upset about a couple bad things, if you can still turn them around."

She cried a little more, then lowered her hands and looked up at him through wet eyelashes, feeling even more embarrassed. Glade smiled, breathed out a small laugh, and put a hand under her chin, pulling her face up. He moved in, getting close to her face. "You have a lot to look forward to," he murmured, staring down at her.

"I guess," she muttered. "Doesn't feel like I'm _ever_ gonna get anything right."

"You will," he said, and moved his mouth onto hers, kissing her.

Clara's hands moved up to his cheeks, kissing him back. It felt _good._ She let him kiss her for as long as he wanted to, but stopped him when a thickly gloved hand started traveling down her shoulder and onto her side. She pushed him back and kept her hands on his shoulders, holding him away.

"Um," she said, her face on fire. _"I_ _don't―"_

"Can't tell me never been kissed, before," Glade said, teasingly.

Clara's face burned. "I have," she stammered. "But... I-I don't know if I _should."_

"What, you got a boyfriend, or something?" he asked, moving his hands to her sides, gripping her through the cloth. Clara suppressed a moan at the firmness of his hands, fingers digging into her just enough to be painful. It was too much like― _him_ ―she felt the spike of dread flooding through her, alongside the want.

 _"N-no,"_ she said, closing her eyes and pressing her lips together. Why did she have to be like this? Every time she had the chance―her body always made it _obvious_ that she wanted it.

"Then what's the hold-up?" he asked, rubbing her side with his thumb.

"I―" Clara whimpered. "I had a bad time, _before,"_ she whispered.

Glade moved back in, pulling her closer at the same time. "We'll have to change that, _too,"_ he said. "Along with your bad rep."

"Bu―" she began, but he caught her up in another kiss. And she didn't know what to say, anyway. Glade's hand moved up over her shirt and manipulated her breast, rubbing in a circle, running over her erect nipples. She moaned into his mouth, and pressed herself against him.

Glade chuckled, and doubled his efforts, pulling her onto his legs and holding her on his lap, wrapping both hands around her head and kissing her passionately. Clara couldn't tell what was going on, at first, her stomach and legs burning up and feeling the warmth flooding up her spine.

Then the door opened, and Glade broke off the kiss, lowering his hands and looking to see who had come in. "Thanks a _lot,_ Gallows," he muttered, sounding disappointed.

Clara removed herself from his lap and stammered out an apology, and fled. Her face was red as she ducked through the halls, breathing hard.

 _Why can't I ever just have a normal day?_ she thought, rubbing her red eyes and fighting the urge to cry again.


	8. If You Falter

Clara burst into the mess hall, then ducked her head down in embarrassment and made her way along the wall to where Charon was standing. He watched her slink up to his side with a red face, her breath a little quicker, her hands shaking.

Well, the paladin hadn't gotten what he wanted, then. Charon knew perfectly well what the man had been aiming for, getting him out of the picture. He could only assume the girl was aware of it, as well, since she had agreed so readily. But it did not seem to be the case.

"Can we _go?"_ she breathed out, shakily. "I don't want to be here, anymore."

"If that is what you wish," he replied, tonelessly.

She nodded, and accepted his offer of a bottle of water and a box of crisps, stuffing them into her pack and walking quickly up the stairs and out into the bailey. They were halfway across the yard when the door behind them opened and an irate paladin started across, coming after them.

 _"Clara!_ Clara, _wait,"_ he said, moving to catch up with them. Charon growled a little, alarmed at the speed of the man as he hurled himself toward her, and pushed her behind his back.

She looked up at Charon first, then at the paladin as he caught up, moving himself to face her. Charon moved with him, keeping himself between the two of them.

"Hey, call off your dog," the paladin said, exasperatedly. "I just want to talk."

Charon's eyes narrowed at the man, and he reached to his side for his knife, making a threatening noise. Clara put her hand onto his, stopping him, and moved so she was facing the man.

"What is it?" she asked, tiredly.

"You're leaving, just like _that?"_ he asked, in disbelief. "I didn't scare you or something, did I?"

Clara breathed out noisily, and gripped the strap of her pack a little tighter. "No," she said. But it was a lie. Both Charon and the paladin could tell. Charon's arm went out in front of her and he fixed the man with a murderous look. The contract provided that he could deter the man, if he chose. Without a better understanding of the girl, however, he was unsure how to proceed.

It was somewhat obvious that she had not enjoyed what the paladin meant to do with her, when she returned from the "tour". Now, she was deliberately lying to cover that up, and that meant she _was_ scared. Charon did not like that condition, in his employer. He stared the man down, letting him feel the full force of his ire.

 _"C'mon,_ Clara," the paladin said. "I didn't mean to come on so strong. I'm sorry. _Please_ don't take off like this."

"I _have_ to go," she said, stubbornly. "I have to finish my dad's work."

"You can't stay just a _little_ longer?" The paladin put his hands together in a begging motion. "Please. I _promise,_ no funny stuff."

"I'm sorry, Glade," she said, firmly. "I have to go."

The man sighed, lowered his hands, and nodded. "Alright," he said, in defeat. "But I'll see you around, right?"

Clara smiled at him, a sad smile laced with some _no thank you._ "You did say I'll be back around, in the future."

"Don't do me like _that,"_ Glade said, reproachfully. "Don't act like you don't _want_ to come back because you'll have to see me. _That_ ain't _fair."_

Clara looked away and flushed. Charon turned slightly, moving himself to grab her upper arm, and pushed her toward the door of the Citadel. "Time to go," he rasped.

She glanced up at him and then at Glade. "I'm sorry, Glade," she repeated, but it was softer now. "I'll see you around." She waved a little at him, and turned and walked away.

Charon shot the man one more warning look before he followed at the ten-foot distance she wanted him to observe.

* * *

A few hours later, Clara collapsed onto a rock just outside of a massively irradiated ruin. Charon moved and caught her as she fell in a dead faint, then held her for a moment while trying to understand what was happening. He laid her onto the ground, carefully.

He could hear her stomach making alarming noises. Had not seen her eat anything since she had walked into the Ninth Circle. He scanned his memory for a time frame and came up with roughly forty hours worth of combat, travel, and little sleep.

He crouched down and opened her pack, pulling out the bottle of water. Propping her up against the rocks, he opened her mouth and poured a little water in. He grumbled under his breath as he broke up a few crisps and put them into her mouth, letting them get soggy, then manipulated her throat so that she would swallow.

It was an unpleasant business, but if she had not eaten in that long, she needed to get something into her stomach as soon as possible. He repeated the process until there were no more crisps, and slowly gave her the rest of the water.

Clara stirred about thirty minutes later, lifting a hand to her chest and patting the damp fabric where he'd spilled water onto her. "Wha?" she said, groggily, pushing herself up into a sitting position.

"You need to be mindful of how often you eat," Charon said, staring out at the wastes. "You passed out from hunger."

She rubbed her face and then pulled her legs up to her chest, and stared at him for a moment. Then she buried her face in her knees and cried for a good long time. Charon kept an eye on the wastes, only turning to eye her occasionally.

He caught her looking at a med-x needle, a handful of the things in her other hand. After a moment she threw the whole lot out into the wastes and sobbed even harder.

"Do you wish me to retrieve your chems?" he asked, annoyed at her. She was acting like a child, throwing a tantrum.

She shook her head and covered her face, making a lot of painful noises. It became a nuisance, and it would cause issues if she did not stop. And it was annoying _him_ to no end.

"Your behavior is erratic." Charon turned to face her. "This display will do nothing more than bring enemies down on us."

"I _know!"_ she screamed, pushing herself jerkily into a stand. _"I'm being stupid!"_ She took two steps toward him and fell.

Charon caught her again, a mangled hand wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her upright and noticing her horrified expression when his face was near to hers. For a moment, he held her there, until she began to move away and he was forced to release her.

"For the record," Charon said slowly, revealing himself more fully to the girl, "I do not think that you are stupid to grieve, or to feel emotion."

She jerked her head up and stared at him for a moment, tear-soaked face surprised and eyes wide. _"W-what?"_

"It is your defense," he said, turning to look back at the wastes. "We all have one. Yours is noisier than it needs to be, however."

She stood there for a moment then wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt, which was fairly soaked with snot and saline by now. "How come you didn't talk like _that,_ before," she said, quietly.

"It is my defense." Charon glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then watched the horizon.

"You... _don't talk_ so people don't hurt you?" she asked, confused.

"Sometimes it is better," he conceded. She would not understand the concept of reticence, even if he tried to explain it.

"I don't think I could be like that," she said, slowly. "I'm too _dumb."_

"You are strong," Charon said, looking back at her. "That is all you need."

"But I don't _want_ to be strong anymore," she said, kicking at the ground like a small child.

Charon sighed in exasperation and turned to face her. "Your strength defines you in the same way your stupidity does," he said, laying the anger on her. "If you do not let it rise to overcome that stupidity, it will never be something you enjoy."

For a moment she stared back at him, her eyebrows drawn together over her eyes, then she dropped her gaze to her hands. "I _guess,"_ she said, frowning.

"There is no guessing," he said. "If you falter, you will fail."

That seemed to light her fire. "I'm not gonna _fail,"_ she said, clenching her fists and glaring up at him.

"Then you must be more confident," he answered.

"I will be." She looked back at her fists and set her face. "I _will."_

"Good. I do not wish to have lived to this age, only to be brought down by a teenager." With that, he resumed his neutral stance, and looked to the horizon. "It will be dark soon," he observed.

Clara looked up at the sky and nodded, picking up her pack and shouldering it. "Let's go," she said, and began walking.

Charon followed, at the ten-foot distance she desired.

* * *

Clara's mouth dropped open at the foul-mouthed child McCready's greeting. She paled when the rotten little shit continued, "Look, I don't let just any bitch into my town, and I'm taking a risk making an exception for you."

Charon liked the kid. Just something about the whole thing was amusing, and he accidentally let a chuckle slip through his facade as the kid went on. "So you're welcome in my town, at least until you start screwing up. Once that bullshit starts, you're out on your own again!"

"O... _Okay,"_ Clara said, obviously intimidated by him.

"Open the gate!" the kid yelled, and they walked into Little Lamplight. Clara looked around quickly, and started off through the caves without stopping to talk to the "mayor" further. Charon followed, hearing the echo of their footsteps through the tunnels.

She walked directly to the back end of the caves, then stared up at a little girl on a walk above a serious-looking gate. Clara cleared her throat and had a short conversation with the girl, then told Charon to stay put and went off again.

Charon stared the kid down, until she scoffed and threw her nose up in the air. "I think you're _uglier_ than those _freaks_ back in the caves," she said, huffily.

He had not had a legitimate conversation with a child in a very long time, but these ones acted as if they wanted to be treated as adults. He suspected that was normal for any child, whether they grew up in a cave or not.

"At least I cannot get _more_ ugly," he said. "You, on the other hand, are an ugly child who will grow up into an extraordinarily ugly woman."

She gaped at him for a moment, before dashing off into the caves and yelling something about "mean mungos".

Charon waited patiently for Clara to return, mildly amused at his own impact on the child. It was interesting to act out of place, to set others on guard with acerbic wit or just plain meanness. Perhaps he would continue the trend, and practice on Clara. So long as she tolerated it.

But she was correct in that she was dumb, and he doubted his jabs at her would be understood very well. Charon watched her returning with the "mayor" and looking sad.

And she would do better to get rid of that depression, or she would end up dead in this so-called "Murder Pass" before she retrieved the G.E.C.K. that she wished to find.

Charon followed her through the gate, maintaining her orders of ten feet.


	9. You Will Fail

Clara and Charon fought their way through the pass, the worst injury a few bullet wounds at the very end as they entered the Vault. Clara had paused for a moment before entering, because the Vault reminded her of home.

 _Home,_ where Amata still was, where no one had to _worry_ about where their next meal was coming from, where no one felt like they were _useless._ Because everyone had a job, and their job was _important_ to the well-being of the Vault. For one long moment Clara wished that she were at home, laundering clothes, and being bored stiff. She would choose folding clean sheets over _anything_ she had experienced outside of the Vault―

But while she was thinking about home, she took a bullet to the upper chest which sent her sprawling and wheezing to the floor. Pain lanced through her and she felt the tears that came from memories spill over, coating her cheeks. She was sure her pitiful crying would make Charon angry again, but she couldn't help the fear that she felt.

Charon dealt with the mutant before he dragged her inside the Vault and closed the doorways to secure the room, examining her chest for injury. It bled like crazy, a gushing hole of pain and horror in her chest above her breast. Clara hadn't had an injury that bad in her entire life, and she was in shock, shaking and cold, when Charon's hands moved her shirt to the side to look at the hole. She wanted him to stop but couldn't voice her concerns―and it was _stupid_ of her to think _that, anyway_ ―she trembled in fear and pain.

She was too weak, to fight off his help. Charon immediately hit her with a stimpak before widening the hole and prying out the bullet, which was lodged near to her lung. She was breathing very oddly, trying to get air into her system. It didn't feel good and she was _very_ grateful he knew what he was doing, because she probably would have made it _worse._

His torn fingers grasped the bullet, pulled it from her chest, and tossed it over his shoulder, before examining the hole, and applying another stimpak. After a moment, he lowered her to the floor and turned his attention to himself.

Clara watched him, curiously, as he removed his jacket and shirt and felt his body for the bullets that had passed into him. His upper body was the same as his head and neck, a huge mess of scars, ripped skin, exposed muscles, and spine bones peeking from the stark red flesh. It was almost as if someone had skinned him alive, and left the mess to try to heal on its own. She self-consciously ran a hand along her own skin, thinking about it.

His skin had healed over already from the radiation, she guessed. She'd found out after Mister Burke changed, that that was how ghouls worked. It was weird but she didn't have a reason to disbelieve the fact. It certainly seemed true enough. Charon didn't have any noticeable wounds until he started touching himself with his knife, and Clara flinched at the sight.

He made a few cuts without issue, slicing into his ripped muscles with his knife and popping the bullets out onto the floor. Clara stared without shame, hearing him make no noise even though it must have been painful.

 _He's really tough,_ she told herself. _Not squishy, like me. I can hit hard, but I can't take a few bad words._ She looked away, ashamed of herself. She ought to help him, he did help her, but she hadn't said a word to him yet. Hadn't even thanked him.

"Do you need help?" she asked, after he'd cut two bullets out and started grumbling. His hands moved around on his side and lower back, pressing into the ripped and exposed muscle. Was looking for something but couldn't find it.

"There is a bullet lodged inside my body," he said, evenly, "and I cannot find it to remove it."

She pushed herself up, arms trembling, and held out her hands to hover over his side. "Where?" she asked, shakily.

He motioned at the area, and she squinted as she looked over the already marred flesh for any sign of passage. There was nothing there but the red splash of his muscle, skin gone almost entirely, a real nasty sight. Radiation must have healed the wound over, already. Clara breathed out slowly and touched him gently, running a hand along the area near his spine, where he'd motioned.

He was really warm. It was silly, but she felt like she was running a fever just sitting near to him. It made her nervous, thinking about _touching_ him―it was only a friendly touch, even, but she didn't like thinking about _touching_ _a ghoul―_

In her mind she could picture _him,_ and how he'd touched her before she killed him. How he'd run a finger along her jaw and made her shiver, how he'd slapped her, the feel of his browned hands against her skin. How she'd punched him over and over and over until he was bleeding so badly she couldn't keep doing it, because he couldn't fight her back.

Clara's hands on Charon's back twitched against him, and he made a noise. She jerked out of the memory and stared at his back. _Charon_ was... he'd said he was honor-bound, to the other ghoul. But he killed him the _minute_ he was no longer bound by that honor.

She was suddenly very scared. Would Charon hurt _her,_ like that? If she were to get rid of his contract? She did remember him saying Ahzrukhal was a rat, and she'd agreed. But would he think the same of her?

He'd helped her. Telling her she had to be confident. That made her feel a lot better.

Her hands traveled over the torn flesh and felt how tough it was, like leather, an outside just as strong as he was on the inside. She wished she were that tough. "Are―Are you sure it's in _this_ spot?" she asked, withdrawing her hands. "I can't feel anything."

Charon grunted, moved his hands around to his back, and ran a finger down his spine, then to the side about an inch. "Pain," he said, jabbing a finger at the muscle.

Clara grabbed his hand and held it there, then pressed into him, making him arch his back and hiss. "I feel it," she announced, shakily. "It's pretty far in there, though..."

"Here," he said, passing her the knife with his other hand.

 _"What―"_

"I will not be an effective bodyguard with a piece of metal lodged near my spine," he said, firmly. "And I cannot get to the spot on my own. I will need you to remove it."

"No," she said, repulsed. "I'd have to _cut_ you and I don't want to do that―and what if I _mess you up―"_

Charon snorted, lifted his arm back, and stabbed himself in the back near the bullet spot. "No choice now," he said. "And that is what stimpaks are for," he added, before his head began to droop.

Clara's breathing came quick and shallow, as she pulled the knife from him and felt around for the bullet. Once it was out she dropped it in her haste, and injected a stimpak into his side near the wound. She grabbed at another for good measure, her hands slippery with blood. Slowly the wound stopped bleeding and began to close up.

She waited for him to say something, but he was still leaning forward with his head down, and she thought for one panicked moment that he'd done something to his spine―she whimpered, and raised her hand to touch his shoulder.

"If you falter," he said, slowly, his voice rising in volume from a whisper to a loud growl, "you will fail."

"I remember," she said, once her heart stopped flopping in her chest.

"We should leave this area. It is not safe," he said, grabbing at his jacket.

Clara nodded, and moved away from him, letting him redress. Her own hands felt the sticky blood where she'd been shot, and realized the stimpaks cured her better than she'd expected. She could breathe much easier now, and it didn't hurt nearly as much as she'd expected. The wound was only a bright pink scar against her skin.

"Thank you for helping me," she told him, softly. "I wouldn't be _alive_ if you weren't." Charon grunted, finished buckling his jacket, and stood up, retrieving his shotgun.

Clara stood and moved to the other door, then paused. She shot a glance back at Charon and grimaced. "You don't _have_ to stay ten feet away from me," she said. "It might be better if you were closer."

"As you wish," he said, and moved forward to stand directly behind her.

Clara fought a shiver as she felt his hot breath down her back, and opened the door to the inside of the Vault.

* * *

She had a headache by the time they reached the right area of the Vault, the screeching and growling that echoed off the walls and through the tunnels getting on her nerves. Charon followed close behind her as she walked slowly through, and made occasional noises to tell her there was a concern or a threat.

Clara was surprised to find the Super Mutant in the cell who talked. He sounded very smart― _too_ smart for her, she figured. He had to explain to her three times what she needed to do before she went and activated the fire alarm at the end of the area.

Charon stood outside the door and fired into the monsters that flooded out of the cells, as they all opened for an emergency. Clara held her hammer and waited, but the smart mutant and Charon took care of them all before she was needed.

"I am Fawkes," the mutant said, introducing himself. Clara took his offered hand and told him her name, squeezing as hard as she dared. He laughed, and told her she had a good firm handshake.

Fawkes had more knowledge of the G.E.C.K. than she ever would have known, telling her it was in the Vault, but that it was somewhere where it would be impossible for her to get in. She was confused, but he explained that the radiation in the room was too intense for even her ghoul, and she shot a look at Charon. Charon had the same blank look on his face as ever.

He offered to help her; since the radiation wouldn't affect him at all, he said, it would be no problem for him to go in and get it.

"Thank you," she whispered, and took his enormous hand up, hugging it to her chest. "This means the _world_ to me, Mr. Fawkes."

"Perhaps, when you have actually _acquired_ your goal, I will agree," he said, gently removing her hands from his. "Until then, save your thanks. We are not _yet_ free."

Clara nodded. She fell behind him in step as he led them through the Vault, toward the place he said the G.E.C.K. was. After a moment or two, she glanced back at Charon and swallowed a lump that was in her throat.

But then―Fawkes got her the G.E.C.K. and as she and Charon were leaving the Vault, she was thrown into a wall and knocked unconscious―


	10. Echo November Charlie One

Charon woke up. It was _novel._

Since his creation as a ghoul he had _never_ encountered sleep. Since his conditioning as a bodyguard was complete, he had never _needed_ much; but when he was remade in the atomic glow of the wasteland, he had never needed it and so he simply had not _slept._

For many, many years he had not slept, only stayed awake and let the events of the world around him stream through his consciousness. Until he encountered Ahzrukhal―the first person he had the opportunity to offer his contract to―he had wondered if he would ever be unconscious, ever again.

It was _very_ rare that he be knocked unconscious, even prior to becoming a ghoul. So rare, in fact, that he could not recall ever having been put out.

After Charon met Ahzrukhal, he had _hoped_ he would not sleep. To be vulnerable around the ghoul to whom he had offered up his services was a state he did not wish to test. But his honor kept him from hurting the man, even though his service under the rat bastard had left him exploring the far corners of his own mind in an attempt to find a way out of his employment.

Of course, there was no escape. He had been lost when Ahzrukhal found him, and considered himself garbage, when he realized he had become what he feared.

His honor kept him to the girl, who was afraid of him, though she was a far better employer than the rat. Even though her actions had gotten the both of them taken from the Vault and captured by a hostile force, she was not the pillar of immorality that Ahzrukhal had been. Charon had found himself looking forward to more traveling with her.

She would, eventually, stop being afraid. Fear was a temporary condition of an immature brain, and his had had plenty of time to mature.

When he woke, his brain was screaming at him. He could not differentiate the pain of a headache from the pain of the contract warning him to return to his employer. It would only become more painful, he knew, the longer he was away from the girl, until he was so incapacitated he might as well be dead.

But there was this matter of a barrier between them, as he had been shackled to some sort of table in what appeared to be a laboratory.

Charon's head swiveled on the table, examining the area. His equipment―including his armor, he noticed―was lying on top of a box in the corner, little yellow tags attached to the items. Inventory. He remembered _inventory._ He remembered _being_ inventory, his services being sold.

Someone in a fully-enclosed lab suit was standing over him, making notes both by pencil and recording onto a holotape his responses to physical tests. _Responses?_ Of course, they were examining him. The Enclave would stuff him in a jar like the world's shittiest snowglobe, if he so much as sneezed on one of them. They would test his body by taking biopsies, checking the reaction to normal neurological tells, and they would record him speaking for the record.

And then they would kill him and preserve him for posterity, because further generations of the ailing tribe of germphobes could not be depended upon to work in the field. Because those children and the children's children would be frightened of the things which lurked in the wastes, and would steadily retreat behind a wall of stone and steel to hide themselves from the world.

He remembered it. He _remembered,_ because he had been trained to remember.

And because he had been a part of the few brave souls who ventured into the wastes on one such field trip.

 _Because he had been Enclave._

* * *

"Echo November Charlie One."

He spoke slowly, carefully. He made the words as easy to understand as he could, trapped against the table, enunciating with his raspy voice a code he didn't know would work.

The observing officer dropped what he was holding, and the scientist flinched. it must have worked, if they were reacting in such a startled manner. He could not be the very first ghoul these people encountered; to think that would be foolish.

"Echo November Charlie One," he repeated.

"Do―Do you think it _knows_ what it's saying?" the scientist said, looking up at the officer.

The officer scoffed and shook his head. "It's just a monster, Lia, _ignore_ it. Anyone could have taught it that code―and this thing was running around with that Lone Wanderer. Who knows what _that_ idiot taught it."

Charon grumbled under his breath. "Echo November Char―" He grunted and made a grating noise in his throat as the officer applied something electric to his neck. _Dammit,_ the man was trying to put him out again. He gritted his teeth, enduring the pain.

The conditioning began to escalate the defense mechanism, forcing him to feel enervated and confused. He blinked at the ceiling, the lights spinning above him as his head pounded in pain. It wasn't as painful as it would be in an hour or two, when he would be begging for death. Death that would come at the leisure of his captors.

That was how _Ahzrukhal_ had found him. Charon did not wish to be forced into that state, once more.

"I don't like this," the woman said, placing her clipboard down. "I'm going to call it in."

"Come on, Lia, it's just some stupid ghoul saying _nonsense!"_ the officer protested, but the woman was already giving a report over an intercom on the wall.

Charon turned his head and looked directly at the officer, staring at him blankly. Without Clara, he could not attempt escape. The conditioning was designed to compel him through pain, back to his employer, progressing to such a high level of pain he would have no other option but to find her. Only then, could he even think about leaving this place.

He did not recall exactly _how_ he had become Ahzrukhal's servant, what had led to him becoming separated from his employer. Other than being physically thrown into the air by some creature so large, it was inconceivable, and his body breaking atop a pile of irradiated barrels, he could not say. After a few days of blinding headaches―he would have sold his services to a _rock,_ if he could have.

By then, he had become a ghoul, so he was universally avoided by the smoothskins. And feared by the people with whom he had lived. He could not be Enclave, if he were a _ghoul._

The officer applied the stun gun to his neck once more, and Charon welcomed the unusual state of unconsciousness once more.

* * *

When he woke, he could not see. There was a mechanical barrier between his eyes and it appeared to cover his entire head. Some sort of iron mask, and he was walking but he did not understand why he was able if he had been unconscious.

But he supposed he could chalk it up to some strange quirk of being a _ghoul._

A loud knock sounded outside of the helmet, and muffled words sounded. He could not make out the words, but he was led forward, and made to sit with a sharp jab of a stun gun into his spine.

He grunted in pain as the gun hit the spot Clara had dug the bullet from, still tender from the healing it had not yet had time to do. The headache had not stopped―was made _worse_ by this heavy helmet covering his whole head. He could feel the ever-present reminder of pain, making him more than willing to attempt an escape. But _how?_

"What the _hell,_ Williams," someone said.

"Sorry, sir," Williams replied. "Must be a bad spot."

"Hurry and get the force field up―"

Charon lifted his hands to feel the bottom of the helmet, and realized it was not locked onto him, only heavy and reliant on gravity to keep him pacified. Perhaps they used such devices for the mindless ferals, who would not be able to comprehend. That was their first and last stupid mistake. Treating him as if he were _feral._

With a swift move, he pulled the helmet off and spun it at the first body he saw.

One of the men in the room―it looked like a holding cell―dropped to the ground, holding his stomach and yelping in pain. The other paled white as a sheet and fled the room, shutting the door behind him.

Charon's hands were bound by force cuffs, glowing blue at his wrists. He moved to the man on the floor, holding his stomach and groaning, and picked him up around the neck. _"Release_ me," he growled, pressing the man into the wall.

 _"C-Can't,"_ was the answer. "Colonel Autumn's orders!"

Charon growled. "So be it," he said, and pulled the man backward, stunning him by slamming him into the wall. He threw the limp body into the circular holding chamber, frisked him, and unlocked his cuffs. Dropping the cuffs on top of the body, he pressed a button on the side of the holding chamber and watched the blue of a force field hum into life.

Charon stepped out into the hallway with a plasma pistol and nothing else, making his way up some stairs. It had been a long time since he'd used a plasma weapon, and he was sure his aim would be terrible, but it was better than nothing.

He came out atop the stairwell and saw the man called Williams paused further down the hall, confronting someone. Charon leveled the plasma pistol at the back of his head and advanced toward him, slowly.

"But President Eden _told_ me to come see him―" Clara was saying.

The terrible pain of the headache removed itself as Charon shot a plasma round into Williams' head, and stared at Clara over the man's dead body. _"Ch-Charon!"_ she said, surprised and alarmed.

"It is not _safe_ here," he said, moving forward and frisking the man.

"Where are your clothes?" she asked, as he pulled microfusion cells from Williams' pockets.

"I do not know," he replied. "The Enclave intended to interrogate me, and I woke without my armor."

"Um, I have something," she said, fumbling to the side, her pack bulging at her side. "Here." She handed him a bundle of clothes, and he dressed immediately in some soft-cloth blue jacket and pants. It was not perfect, but it was clothing and far better than running through an Enclave stronghold with nothing other than an undershirt and underwear.

"Also this," she passed him a Chinese assault rifle and some ammo. He traded her the little pistol, checking the weapon's condition and looking at the clip. It would do, until he could get a replacement shotgun.

"President Eden sent me a message and said to come see him," Clara explained, as they walked away from the rooms. "Said that―"

A voice came over the P.A. and informed the base that an intruder was at large and that she should be pacified no matter how. Clara went white as a sheet and held her sledgehammer a little tighter.

"Do not worry," Charon said, holding up his rifle. "We will not fail." He stared her down.

Some color returned to her cheeks, and she held up her hammer. "We will not fail," she repeated, and turned to face down the Enclave.

Charon followed behind her at about three feet away.


	11. Behave

Note: Clara would have never been able to do this part anyway. Thank goodness for Charon

* * *

Clara fell up the stairs, yelping. Charon didn't miss a beat, turning around and firing his shotgun into the group of soldiers chasing them, and grabbed her up onto her feet a little too roughly. He continued up the stairs, pulling her in front of him, grunting in pain with each hit.

She was limping from a plasma burn across her thigh, shaken from all the near misses they'd given her, and scared half to death. Just flat-out _scared._ Even though Charon was right―if she didn't finish this she was going to fail―she was still scared of being shot at and having to hurt people. She didn't _like_ hurting people.

But she had to. She just _had_ to, if she didn't finish her father's work, she would never be able to sleep at night―but she didn't want to die in some dark and scary place like this. And Charon was taking a lot of fire―being injured _too_ much―

The soldiers stopped following them after a minute or two, and Clara collapsed onto a tall stairwell, crying and whimpering in pain. Her breath came a little quicker when she noticed how bad the burn on her leg really was, and she tried not to panic.

"We need to keep moving," Charon said, reloading his shotgun.

"I can't breathe," she managed out. "It _hurts―"_

"It will always hurt," he muttered, sweeping the room with his gun, then looking up at the stairwell. It went on forever, up and up into the ceiling. Clara stared up at it for a minute, then wiped her face and looked down at her leg.

"You're like Gunny," she mumbled, touching the edge of the burn. It was very close to her privates and rubbed against her other leg as she moved. "Pushing because you have to."

"I am bound to you," he said, slowly. "To keep you safe and do as you wish me to do. If you do not wish for me to keep you appraised of the situation and what response should be made, you need only tell me so."

 _"No,_ it's okay―" she poked at her leg and winced.

"Good." Charon made a rumbling noise in his throat. "I do not wish to be rude, but you have nowhere near the combat experience that I do. This is the best possible use of my services."

Clara laughed at herself, exasperated. She didn't have that, no. "Not gonna argue," she said, and stood up, wincing. She looked down at her Pip-Boy and fiddled with the knobs. "I think we're supposed to go _up?"_

Charon looked back the way they'd come, then nodded, and they started their way up the stairs. Felt like it went on forever, winding up and up into the building, until Clara stopped and fell across the railing.

She clutched at the rail and wiped her face on her arm. "We're out of stimpaks," she muttered to herself.

Charon grumbled, put his shotgun across his back, and hauled her up with both hands. "Stay on your feet, Clara."

The pain in her leg got worse and she wobbled, pitching backward onto him. "It _hurts,"_ she whined, reaching out for the rail.

"How close are we to the President?" he asked.

She looked at the map, and then rubbed her face. "I think it's one more," she mumbled, unsure.

"Very well." He reached down and grabbed her legs, then picked her up and started walking up the stairs.

Clara's face burned. "I only wanted to sit down for a minute," she said, feeling guilty. It wasn't fair to let him carry her―and what if there were more people trying to kill them, at the top?

"We cannot rest here," was all he said.

 _"I―"_ she looked down at his hand wrapped around her thigh and saw his fingertips, the muscles worn down from gripping at his shotgun. How many years had he been forced to fight? How long had he lived in the wastes, like he was? His hands would never heal up properly, and he would _always_ look like he did. Because he was a _ghoul._

She looked up at his face, without emotion, as he carried her effortlessly up the stairs. He was strong, but she was stronger, and here she was being stupid and refusing to take a little bit of pain. Pain that he'd felt, all over his body, when he became a ghoul―

"Does it _hurt?"_ she asked, barely more than a whisper.

"It will always hurt," he repeated, turning a corner.

"How do you deal with it?" She stared at the underside of his jaw, the ragged skin and muscle. Felt the heat he put off. "Why are you so warm?" she muttered.

"I am a large person," he said, blankly. "I put off more heat than a small one." He paused for a moment and looked down at her. "The pain is constant, but I have learned to ignore it."

Clara flushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said, looking away. "I'm being rude."

"You are curious," he said, moving forward. "It is well, if you will be requiring my services for the indefinite future."

"Why do you have a contract, anyway?" she wondered, and made a small surprised noise when his hands tightened on her body.

Charon grumbled. "It was the only choice I had," he replied, sounding angry. "I was not strong enough, nor was I smart enough."

"But... but you..." She frowned and tried to make the words work for her. "You're strong _now,_ though," she said.

"It does not matter, in the end," he answered, and lowered her legs to the ground. "I am not who I was. You will change, in time. We all do."

That made sense. Clara remembered who she was before she met Mister Burke―more stupid than she was now, willing to do anything to make a friend and to get help. Thought she was in love with him because he was smart and he took care of her, made sure she was happy―but she'd had to make him happy by doing other things, things that she hadn't liked.

 _Painful_ things. She didn't like doing them, but... but that was what it was, right? If you didn't listen, or you did something they didn't _like..._ they could _make_ you behave.

Her dad made her behave with words. Tried to get her to listen to him, stay in the Vault. She hadn't―she couldn't―and when she had a second chance she'd only made it worse by not listening and forcing him to behave for her.

Charon would always behave. He could have killed that other ghoul any time he wanted but he hadn't, because he was forced to behave by his contract. Clara would never have to do anything special to make him stay because he wouldn't leave, unless she told him to.

She didn't have to worry about him. Not like everyone else.

Butch had used secrets to make her behave. Mister Burke had used pain.

She stifled a tiny sob and wiped her eyes. "I don't really want to be me," she said. "I want to change."

"Then you must work to change yourself now," Charon said, holding up his gun and staring at the device in the wall. "Or we will not survive to see the result."

Clara nodded, then sucked snot up into her head as she looked at her Pip-Boy. She frowned. "It says the President is... _here,_ but..."

"Ah, face to face at last. It's high time we met."

She stared up at the computer. "Are―are you _talking?!"_ she said, in disbelief.

"There's a bright future ahead of us, my young friend." It was definitely the computer talking. Clara's mouth dropped open. "I am quite pleased you were able to make it. The trip was not what I had intended, but serves as an adequate test of your abilities."

She couldn't think of what to say. She gaped at the computer. "Are you listening?" Clara nodded, too surprised to speak.

"I need you to act on my behalf, to ensure that our country's future is secured." The computer voice sounded just like those radio broadcasts... "You and I have a chance to make our country a better place for all of us."

Clara squeaked out something, she didn't even know what.

"What I'm going to ask of you may seem a bit... _Disturbing._ I assure you there's a very good reason for it. I'd like to explain what I want you do to. Will you indulge me for a moment?"

Charon moved behind her, reminding her he was still there. "Um, what's the point of all this?" she asked, nervously.

"The 'point', is that we are hampered at every turn by a world gone wrong. So called 'Super Mutants', Ghouls, horrific creatures..." The computer voice made an "ahem" noise. "The mutations outside these walls must be cleansed before we can prosper. Mutation must be eradicated."

"Horrific," Clara said, shooting a look at Charon, who was now looking at the computer like he'd very much like to destroy it. _"Okay."_

"I believe your father's work can do that more quickly and efficiently than ever possible before. With a simple modification, it can be used to distribute agents that destroy mutated creatures upon ingestion."

Clara coughed and hiccuped at the same time, trying to stop herself from saying what she wanted to say. To destroy _people_ ―people like Charon, people like Fawkes, who used to be normal, but were _changed―_

"You will change, in time." Charon had said that. His change, Fawkes' change, it all made them stronger and better suited for the wastes. Clara couldn't imagine herself becoming a mutant or a ghoul, but she didn't think they all needed to die. Just the _bad_ ones―

 _Like Mister Burke._ She'd killed him, finished her relationship with him, made him stop _hurting_ people in the wastes. Like the people of Megaton... and now this computer wanted her to do the same thing?

Clara's jaw tensed. This President wanted her to kill more people than Mister Burke _ever_ had. That meant it was much worse, than him. And it needed to _die._ But she didn't know how to kill it... except to keep helping the Brotherhood.

"What I require of you is really very simple." The computer paused, waiting for her response.

"Okay," she said, lying to it. "Tell me what to do."

"There is a vial in front of you, filled with a modified FEV virus. It needs to be inserted into the control console for the purifier. Once that is done, and the activation code is entered, the purifier will be activated and the process will be automated."

The front of the computer's case opened to show her the vial. Clara reached out and took it, looking it over. Such a little thing, capable of killing so many... Not like the big bomb in Megaton, stuck in that puddle. She wiped a few tears away for the people, before putting the vial away.

Charon was watching her without a word. She didn't make eye contact with him. "I can do that for you, Mr. President," she lied.

"Excellent. I am pleased to know that I can count on you. There isn't much time. I suggest you travel there immediately."

The door opened behind them, and Clara started off into the building, wanting to get out of there as fast as she could. Her feet hit the metal walkways with speed, trying to push herself _out_ of this horrible place―

"You are a better liar than I imagined," Charon said, keeping pace.

Thank goodness he understood―she smiled a little, and glanced back at him. "Thank you," she said, and slowed to a stop, wincing. She breathed out and hissed at the pain in her legs. "We gotta get out of here, Charon. Keep these jerks from doing stuff like _that."_

Charon only smiled gruesomely, and lifted his shotgun. "As you wish, Clara."


	12. Niceness

Note: Not sure where this is headed but Clara's pretty awkward so we'll just have to see. Tenpenny, you fickle bastard, you

* * *

They were both injured heavily before they left Raven Rock, but Clara found a few stimpaks along the way and used them to alleviate her own pain before dealing with his. She injected Charon with a serious look on her face, mouth screwed up in concentration, looking more mature than she usually did.

It was oddly attractive, and Charon squashed the feeling as quickly as possible. Did not need the physical reminder that he was a man cropping up to cause trouble. If he was to travel with her indefinitely, it would only distract him.

...It was becoming harder for him to stay feelings of emotional attraction, however. The girl was the nicest person he had ever met and though he was honor-bound to protect her, he felt a legitimate desire _to_ do so.

She had an... interesting effect on males. He put the thought out of his head as they traveled away from Raven Rock.

The two headed south. Clara traveled in an odd manner; she used visual aids to determine where she was, rather than explore her maps on the Pip-Boy she carried. Charon thought nothing of it, at first, but on such a long journey, it was cause for concern.

"Should we not return as quickly as possible?" he asked. Clara had stopped at a small two shack town below an overpass, staring out at a tall tower to the south. She bit her lip nervously, then slumped a little.

"Yeah, I guess," she said. "I... I ought to go _home_ first."

Charon looked up at the tower, then down at her, and closed the distance between them. His leather creaked with his movement, loud in the still of night. Clara breathed out and took a step forward, intending to head toward the tower.

Movement from around the corner of a nearby shack caught Charon's eyes before Clara noticed. He laid a hand on her shoulder and yanked her back, pulling his shotgun and snapping it into the face of a dark-haired man who came around the corner. Moving fast, the man ran directly into the shotgun barrel, and reeled backward from the contact.

 _"Jesus!"_ he yelped, grabbing at his face and backing down a few steps. "What the _hell?"_

"Sorry," Clara started. Charon tightened his hand on her shoulder and held her back, behind him. She made a small moaning noise and moved under his grip. Charon ignored it and focused on the threat.

The man rubbed his face for a moment, then sized them up. "You aren't here to help Sierra, are you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at Charon.

"No," Clara answered, nervously.

"Huh," he said, and put his hands on his hips. "That's a _shame."_ His mouth curled up into a grin, leering at her. Charon immediately disliked the man.

"What does Sierra need help with?" Clara asked, innocently. She could not have not noticed the man's leer, but she was pointedly ignoring it. Charon kept his gaze on the man, his hand on Clara's shoulder, and his shotgun aimed at the man's face.

"She's crazy for Nuka-Cola," the man said. "I'm Ronald. Sierra lives there," he pointed. "She collects everything Nuka-Cola. She's _addicted_ to that shit." He scoffed.

"Okay," Clara said. She looked him up and down. "Maybe I'll talk to her. I'm a little busy right now..."

"She's gonna ask you to collect Nuka-Cola Quantum for her," Ronald said. "But I'll pay you extra to bring it to me. See, if I give it to her―" he grinned widely and chuckled. "Let's just say it's worth it to me."

"...I don't think she's gonna have sex with you if you bring her fancy soda," Clara said, showing a surprising amount of comprehension for her apparent intelligence. She stared at him without expression. _"I_ wouldn't."

"Well, you aren't some crazy broad with a soda addiction, now _are_ you?" Ronald stared her down. "So, who cares what the hell _you_ think. If she asks you, you bring 'em to _me_ first."

"Whatever," Clara said, moving to walk past him. Charon moved with her, his hand still on her shoulder, shotgun still trained on Ronald's face. He released Clara once she began walking up a hill, away from the town, lowering his gun.

"You grabbed me too hard," Clara said, softly. "It hurt."

"Apologies," Charon said, keeping pace some three feet behind her. "It was not my intention to harm you."

"It's okay," she said. Her voice sounded a little odd, to him. Charon watched her walking, her face flushed and bottom lip in her teeth.

 _"Um,"_ she said, glancing back at him.

"Do you have a concern?" Charon asked.

"Well..." she slowed her pace even further. "I―haven't met that many ghouls," she said, her voice strained. "I'm... I don't know what's the right question to ask, sometimes. When I'm curious."

Charon cleared his throat. "I was not always a ghoul," he began, anticipating an awkward conversation.

"I know that," she said, climbing up onto a rock. "I knew someone... who changed. I... know how it works." She sounded nervous, now.

"You are referring to the Burke man?" He had heard her speak about the man, when Three Dog had pressed her for more information. "He is dead?"

"Yeah," Clara said. "Yeah." She sighed and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "He..." She sniffled and choked back a sob. "He made me into a monster," she mumbled, staring out at the tower.

Charon watched her, without saying anything. After a moment, she turned to him and sighed. "I blew up an entire _town,"_ she said, her voice dead in her throat. "Because he told me he would help me, and because I... I needed the help. I'm not _smart._ Just _strong."_ She choked up a little. "I didn't even want to go to Underworld. I was scared. Because he was a ghoul. Because Underworld is filled with ghouls."

Charon didn't reply, only stared at her. Her crying also had an interesting effect of people. The girl cried more frequently than anyone he had ever encountered, before. He did not have much experience with young women, however. Had not had the privilege, until now. He was not familiar with the proper way to respond, and he chose to let her dictate the conversation.

She stared at him with shining eyes, tears streaming from her face. "I'm glad I _did,_ though," she near-whispered.

"You learned a lesson from the Burke man," Charon said, scanning the area quickly. If she wished to stop and speak, he must keep an eye out. "You are smarter now, than you were before. You faced a fear. That makes you tougher, as well."

She stared at him for a moment, her cheeks pinked and eyes still filled with tears. "Will you always be like this?" she asked. "Will you always treat me _nice,_ like that?"

Charon turned to look at her. "I do not have a choice, Clara."

"You'll _always_ obey? Even if I make you do something really horrible, like Mister Burke made me?"

Charon grumbled. "I do not have a choice," he repeated. "I doubt that I would enjoy performing such action, if you were to command it."

"I wouldn't," she mumbled, wiping her face. "I don't want to be a bad person."

He regarded her for a moment. "Why are you pursuing this line of questioning? If you wish me to change my behavior, I will," he said, staring at her curiously.

"No," she said, turning away. "No, I like you like this." She didn't answer the other question, however.

He cleared his throat, letting the matter rest. "Then, if you are finished questioning me, we should leave this place. I do not like the look of it." Charon's eyes swept the distance again.

"Yeah," she agreed, and started moving again. Charon kept the short distance she wished, following behind her.

* * *

As they approached the tower, Clara was nervous and jumpy. Charon was briefly distracted by her state of nerves, and had not noticed the threat. He did not realize he had been shot until blood began pouring from his leather, above his heart.

The same place Clara had been shot, by the Super Mutant in Murder Pass. It was unpleasant. He had been shot in the chest before, however. It was dangerous, but manageable. He did not feel much pain, either. That was normal.

Clara had not learned the finer points of combat readiness and immediately panicked, dragging him toward the gate of the tower. "We have to get _inside―"_ she was saying, breathlessly, pulling on his hand. Charon stared down at her, at her stricken face, and acceded to her wish.

"You are _not_ bringing one of those mush-faces in here," one of the men in matching armor told her, at the gate.

"I am," she told them, through the gate. "If you don't let me in, I'm gonna tell Mister Tenpenny you wouldn't let me in, and you'll get _fired!"_ Her hands on her hips and her face animated in anger was ridiculous, but appropriately intimidating.

There was grumbling, but eventually the guards allowed them to enter. Clara led Charon into the building and into the back end of the first floor, where she knocked on a door loudly and often until it opened. "Doctor, I need _help―"_

"Well, come in," the doctor said.

Charon took a seat on a gurney and removed his jacket. Clara was hovering around, anxiously. The doctor stared at Charon for a moment, then cleared his throat. "We'll dig out that bullet, then, and apply a stimpak."

It was over with relatively quickly. Clara held the bullet in her hand, chewing a thumb and staring at it. "Who would've shot you?" she wondered, as he redressed.

"It is a .308 round," Charon said, briefly. "From a sniper rifle."

Clara's eye went wide. _"Oh,"_ she said, looking as if she suddenly realized something.

In the elevator she touched his arm and asked him if he was okay. He did not know how to react to such behavior; even in service to the Enclave, he had never been treated so well. With respect, maybe, but not with actual concern for his well-being. And Ahzrukhal had not _cared_ how injured he was, only ordered him to take care of it.

Charon was continuously surprised by the girl, and her niceness. He only nodded in response to her question, and tried not to let his head run away with the thoughts.

She took him to the top of the tower, a lobby with a very nice set of suites situated around it, and entered one. Charon followed, dutifully, as she asked an old man in a red jacket if he had shot her bodyguard. He had; he didn't apologize. Clara was angry again, and screwed her face up at the old man. No apologies were forthcoming, though.

"By the way, Clara," Tenpenny said. "How is that plan with the purifier going? I haven't heard from Burke in a long while."

She went very, very still and stared at the old man. "He..." She swallowed. "He died."

"Well, well." Tenpenny shook his head. "Am I to understand you are completing the job for him, _then?"_

Clara fixed him with a stubborn look. "I can't let you have the purifier, Mister Tenpenny. I'm sorry, but it's not yours."

"Is that so." Tenpenny made an amused "hmm", then waved her off. "Away with you, then, I have no more use for you." He looked thoroughly bored and wouldn't respond to any more questions.

Clara led Charon to another room and unlocked the door. She closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, then sighed and pocketed her keys.

"Home," she said, tonelessly. Charon's eyes swept the large one-room suite, then came to a rest on her again. "We'll get some sleep and then head back to the Citadel," she added tiredly, and collapsed onto the bed face-first.

Charon looked down at the table in the middle of the room. There was a litter of drugs across the top; needles, bottles, injectors and tins of mentats, among other things. He made sense of her tantrum with the med-x, before. Her past was more troubled than her present, it appeared.

She had survived the wastes by using chems, and when she stopped using them, she became a mess of tears and emotion. He looked over at her, sleeping peacefully with one leg off the edge of the bed. It was good that she had stopped.

Charon moved her leg up onto the bed, pulled the comforter over her side, and removed himself to stand against the wall. For good or ill-intent... he snorted. Clara was only dangerous to herself, without someone like the Burke man to tell her what to do.

It would stay that way, until she figured herself out. Only then, would she be dangerous to anyone who got in her way.

He kept an eye on her for the next ten hours, watching her sleep fitfully.


	13. Sleep

"Clara," someone said.

She looked up, squatting over a dead raider's body. She was taking the clothes and guns from it, outside of a Metro station entrance. The wind blew into her face, making her eyes water. She blinked a bunch of times, trying to get her eyes to focus.

"Sweetie, what are you doing?" Her― _her dad_ ―was standing there, watching her. Clara was up on her feet in a second, rushing to his side, holding him tightly and crying.

 _"Dad!"_ she yelled, mashing her face into his side. He held her for a moment, and she enjoyed the hug, enjoyed the closeness―she'd never been able to give him a hug before he died―

Wait. Wait, he _was_ dead... _wasn't he?_

Clara stopped for a moment and looked up at her dad, then jerked back in fright. He was falling apart, his skin coming off in huge clumps. She screamed, putting her hands up to her mouth and backing away, watching him melt away.

"What is the matter, Clara?" he asked, raw muscle tensing in his jaw as the skin came away, teeth exposed by the decay. She let her mouth fall open in a long scream, watching in horror as he turned into a terrible thing, rotting away before her very eyes―she couldn't _help_ but scream―

Soon, a skeleton was all that remained, still talking to her, asking her what was wrong, reaching bony hands out to her. Clara ran, screaming, her feet moving her away from the dead raider, away from her dead father, down into the Metro.

She jammed herself into a bathroom stall and cried, knees up to her chest, fists pressed into her face. She cried for what seemed like ages, until the door of the stall opened and an all too familiar raspy voice spoke to her.

"Clara, _my love..._ you've been _very, very bad."_

She screamed so loud she hurt her own ears, kicking out at the bony hands that grabbed at her―

* * *

Charon grunted in her ear, pushing her away as she kicked out at him. She felt her heartbeat, so fast in her chest, and looked up at his face so close to hers―then recoiled and screamed, when she remembered the dream.

Charon moved away from her, but kept his hand on her arm. He was surprised by her screaming like that, when she saw his face. It made her feel terrible. Charon was _not_ Mister Burke―he was _different_ ―even if he was a ghoul.

He was holding down one of her arms, the other trapped under a bed cover. She stopped fighting, then calmed herself, trying to slow her breathing. Charon waited for her to calm down completely before he released her.

"You were having a nightmare," he stated. "It appeared you might harm yourself. I intervened. Is that acceptable?"

"Y-yeah," she said, pressing a hand to her heart. "Yeah."

"That is unusual for you?" he asked, backing away and staring down at her. "Nightmares?"

"Not... _really."_ Clara pulled her knees up to her chest and stared blankly at the bed. "It was my dad... He was dead. And he started―to fall _apart,_ and―" she sobbed into her knees. "And _I r-ran a-wuh-way―"_

Charon grumbled and laid a hand onto her shoulder, holding her tightly. Didn't say a word, just stood there touching her. Clara cried herself out, then put her hand on top of his and held it.

"Thank you for waking me up," she said, rubbing the back of his glove. Charon did not respond other than to squeeze her shoulder, which made her feel better.

She... she _wasn't_ afraid of him, she told herself. No matter how much he made her think about Mister Burke. He wasn't afraid to touch her, and she shouldn't be afraid of that―after all, he'd needed _her_ to touch _him_ when she dug the bullet from his back. She couldn't keep treating him nice, but act afraid of him at the same time―it wasn't _right,_ and she felt guilty for it.

"I'm sorry I screamed like that," she said, wiping her nose with her other hand. "I was startled, and..."

"I understand," he said, interrupting her slightly. "My appearance is grotesque. The contents of your nightmare would not have lent to a more friendly response." His hand went loose on her shoulder, but she didn't let go.

"It still wasn't _right."_ Clara grabbed his hand with both of hers and held it in front of her, staring at his fingers. "I shouldn't be scared of you. You won't hurt me unless I sell your contract."

He rumbled out a laugh, then. "I would not hurt you, if you sold the contract," he said, laughter in his voice.

"But... but you shot the other one..." She looked up at him, nervously.

"Ahzrukhal was far worse than you, Clara. He _deserved_ to die." Charon tightened his hand in her grasp, wrapping his fingers around hers.

"You said that, before," she said, absently rubbing his fingers where they were not covered with leather. His hands felt exactly like the leather, but with more rough edges. "...Why?"

"You have not pushed drugs on others. Pimped out your debtors to others like yourself. Enabled slavers to do business with you, so that you might sell someone for profit. You have done _none_ of these things." Charon sounded angry. "And you most certainly have not done them for as many _years_ as Azhrukhal had." He lowered his tone and looked down at her.

"What I did was just as bad," she said, looking at the ragged fingers wrapped around her own.

"If you were manipulated, then your actions were not what you would have chosen for yourself. I lived in such a fashion, for many a year." Charon leaned down and loosed his hand from hers. "You are at fault for existing, and doing these things at the behest of another..." He stared down at her and she found it hard to meet his eyes. "But they are not who you are. Do not let such things define you."

Clara sat and thought about it for a while. When she left Rivet City, her entire goal had been to finish the job at the purifier, to do what her father had been doing. But... but she'd started feeling like a monster when she realized at the radio station that Three Dog had been telling people what she'd done. When Three Dog told her she had a nasty reputation, talked meanly to her.

Three Dog didn't feel that way about her, now. She'd talked to him for a long time, told him what happened with Megaton. He understood she was dumb. Knew she hadn't done it on her own. Knew she'd only wanted her dad back, and then Mister Burke had used her... for _bad_ things. Things she would not have done, if she understood better.

"I don't know who I really am," she said, sniffling a little.

Charon moved away and leaned onto the walls. "Then you have to find out," he rasped, thoughtfully.

She set her mouth and stared at her hands, picturing her scar-lined and callused fingers holding Charon's hand. "I'm not a bad guy," she said, stubbornly. "And I'm not―I'm not _smart,_ but I'm not gonna let anyone tell me what to do―"

"Not the President," Charon said. "But the Brotherhood?"

"They want to help me finish the purifier," she said, slowly. "Pretty sure that makes them the good guys."

He rumbled in his throat. "Perhaps."

Clara sighed and moved out of the bed, and went to the little toliet at the end of the room. She moved the divider to cover her, then stripped off her pants and looked at the burn on her inner thigh. It was still sensitive to the touch, making her hiss in pain as she rubbed it.

"Charon," she said, once she was dressed again and the wound dealt with. "Do you need to sleep?"

"I do not need sleep." He shot her a curious glance.

"Are you sure―"

"I do not sleep at all, Clara," he said, staring her down.

 _"Oh."_ She looked up in surprise. "What? _How come?"_

He shrugged, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall. "I simply do not."

"I don't know _anything_ about ghouls," she muttered. It was confusing for her.

"We are not all the same," Charon offered. Clara stared at him for a minute, her face flushed in embarrassment. She still didn't know what was right, to say or do... and she _was_ curious―

"Let's go, okay?" she said, shakily, grabbing up her pack and opening the door. "I don't like it here."

* * *

"How _long_ have you been a ghoul, Charon?" Clara asked. She hopped over a piece of broken overpass, moving underneath a raider "town". They had just cleared out the raiders, and gotten more shotgun shells for Charon. He was grunting whenever he moved and she knew he probably had a hurt, but he wasn't telling her. She didn't like that.

"Too many years to count," he answered, stepping over the broken concrete and grunting again.

Clara stopped short and Charon almost ran into her. She turned around, quickly, and stared up at him. "Where are you hurt?" she asked, point-blank.

"It is of little concern," he said, staring down at her.

"You say that, but I can _hear_ you making hurt noises," she said. "Where is it?"

Charon's mouth twitched. "My knees ache. I am old, Clara."

She couldn't tell how old he was, even if she guessed. Kept her eyes on him for a moment, searching his face for any clue to his emotion, then screwed up her mouth. "How do we fix them?" she asked.

He gave a rasping bark, startling her. "It is only a product of age. Nothing can be done."

"I don't like you being hurt," she said.

"I am aware," he said, and stared out over her head into the distance. "There is danger here."

She turned and looked and saw a radscorpion crawling over the ground toward them. She sighed, pulled her sledgehammer from her back, and went to kill it.

The radscorpion was tougher than she thought―it was a very large one, and Clara wasn't good at dodging the blows. She got hit with its stinger once, jabbing her in the side, before she slammed the hammer down onto its eyes and stumbled away. Charon put it down, holding it at bay for a moment or two before shooting and killing it.

Clara threw up onto the ground nearby, feeling the cold ice of venom running through her. Charon approached her and grumbled, then picked her up and set her on a piece of overpass. He pulled up her shirt as she laid her head back onto the rubble. _"Hurts,"_ she said, mumbling, as she felt the hot fingers traveling over her side.

"You'll live," Charon said, pushing on her skin. "Does not appear to be dangerous."

"I think you ought to start shooting things before I get to them," Clara said, closing her eyes.

"I agree," he answered. "You may lead the way, but in combat, you must stand behind me."

"We're out of stimpaks again," she muttered, thinking hard. It was hard to think with her mind filling up with the cold. "Need to find a doctor." Charon only grumbled a little, in reply.

Clara opened her eyes and saw a swirling sky, skin muscles and ice-colored eyes, and winced. "Charon," she said, pushing herself upward and rubbing her face. "What color were your _eyes,_ when you were..." she paused. "I don't know the right word."

"They were always blue," he said, picking her up and setting her onto her feet.

"Mine are, too," she muttered, rubbing her face.

Charon laid a hand on her shoulder and pointed. "The Metro to the D.C. ruins is very near."

She looked up and regretted it, grimacing. Felt sick to her stomach. _"Okay,"_ she said, willing her feet to move. It was hard work, trying to move herself to the Metro gate.

Charon opened it and she stumbled inside, yawning. They moved deeper inside, and eventually she knew the poison would wear off―

"It's a good thing you don't sleep," she said, as she fell onto the broken ground, passing out in a heap of arms and legs.


	14. I Like You, Too

Note: Clara is difficult to understand, even for me, sometimes. So awkward. This might be edited, if the next chapter doesn't pan out the way I anticipate. Would appreciate some input on this chapter or any of the others.

If you don't see anything new from me for the next few days, I'm either tying one on, sleeping one off, or still drunk. I have to make a public appearance on occasion or people will start to think I've died

* * *

Water dripped down a wall in the Metro, running along the metal in a steady stream. Charon leaned forward and collected more of the water in an empty bottle, staring blankly at his hands. Clara was asleep on a cot nearby, safely tucked behind a security door.

There had been ghouls in the Metro when he had carried her through; ferals who wanted to attack her and had not given up until he was forced to drop her and deal with them. In addition to the scorpion venom, she had taken damage from the explosion of a generator which he had accidentally shot while disposing of the ferals.

It made Charon angry at himself, allowing her to sustain more injury, indirectly caused by himself. He knew she would not blame him, either, and that made it worse.

The... _attachment_ he felt, beyond that of the contract, was becoming difficult to ignore. He returned to the little room at the top of the stairs, grumbling to himself. No good would come of him allowing himself to feel that way, he knew.

Clara choked a little as he tilted her head up, pouring the water into her mouth. After a moment she opened her eyes and stared up at him, then patted her side.

 _"All better?"_ she croaked. She looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

"No," Charon said, shaking his head. "You are not yet 'all better'. You had an allergic reaction to the venom."

"What does that mean?" she asked, slumping back onto the cot.

"Your body tried to kill itself in an effort to destroy the venom." It was as close as he could explain. It had certainly looked like she was dying, when she had started to have a seizure.

"That doesn't sound good," she groaned, frowning. "...Why am I so sleepy?"

"To stop the reaction, I had to drug you," Charon replied. He had not wanted to, but there was no other option.

She jerked in surprise, then winced in pain and grabbed her side. "You gave me _drugs?"_

"Yes," he replied, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at her.

Clara rubbed her eyes and looked up at him. "What did you..." she stopped herself and looked at her hands, shaking slightly. "Psycho? Med-X?"

"Both," he answered. "And jet. I was unsure of the proper combination to quell the seizures."

She grunted, sat up, and held out a hand, counting her fingers. Her mouth moved as she counted, screwing up her face in concentration. "I haven't had any of those for..." Her mouth moved again. "Almost a whole month." She sighed, dejectedly.

"I am sorry," Charon said.

"It's not your fault. I didn't die. That's a good thing." She held up a shaking hand. "Feels too shaky, though. How long do you think it'll take to wear off?"

"Long enough to get you to a doctor," he replied, and extended a hand to help her up from the cot. "It is only a temporary solution."

"Oh," she said, and stood, taking his hand. "Okay."

Clara paused before taking a step, drawing in a shaky breath. She moved, still holding his hand, and pitched forward onto him. Charon grabbed her shoulder with his other hand, intending to return her to the upright position, but realized she had fallen into him on purpose.

She moved both her arms to wrap around his chest, and she was... _hugging_ him. Charon blinked, surprised by the action. Clara hugged him to her, tightly, uncomfortably.

"You are causing me pain," he said, after a moment.

"I'm sorry," she said, loosening her grip but not releasing him.

"What is the point of this?" he asked, quietly.

Clara laughed. "It's a hug," she said, laying her head on his shoulder.

"I recognize that," he said, moving both of his hands to her shoulders. "Why?"

"It's a thank you," she said, squeezing him. "For taking care of me."

He grumbled, and tightened his grip on her shoulders. "How long do you intend to thank me?" he asked, mildly annoyed. The response she was eliciting from him was... unpleasant, really. "This is uncomfortable."

Clara sighed, and released him, but did not remove her hands from his body. She held him at the elbows, looking up at him. "How long has it been since you had a hug?" she asked, staring up at him with her wide blue eyes.

"I cannot say," he replied, moving his hands off of her shoulders and letting them drop. "And I do not need thanks," he added, looking pointedly at her hands. The longer she held him, the harder it was for him to concentrate.

"Yes, you do," she said, frowning. "Do you... are you..." She made a frustrated noise. "Can't you _feel?_ Happiness?"

He looked at her for a moment, seeing the irritation in her eyes. She was not pleased with his behavior; he must change it. He breathed out, willing himself to be less grumpy. "I feel emotion," he said. "I understand the idea of a hug." He looked away. "But I do not need physical attention. My job is to protect you. Not to hug you."

Clara released him and backed away. "What if I ordered you to enjoy it?"

Charon grumbled under his breath. "Then I would," he said.

"I don't think you really _would,"_ she said, pouting a little. "I think you would say you did but you wouldn't."

"You have accurately described my nature," he told her, dryly.

"You're being mean," she said, but she was smiling. "I can tell by the way you're saying that."

He only stared at her. Clara let him go, sitting down on the cot again and rubbing her side. "You really don't have a choice, do you," she said, wincing.

"No," he said. "I do not."

"I don't like that."

Charon stood a little straighter, crossed his arms over his chest and stared at a fixed point on the wall. "I will rectify my behavior, but I cannot change the contract."

"No," she said, sadly. "You be you. I'll be me." She sighed and rubbed her temples.

He stared down at her for a long time, watching her. After a time, he cleared his throat. He had almost forgotten how to speak to people. The ugly little girl in the caves had made him remember that humans were, by nature, social creatures; even though he had spent a long time ignoring the patrons of the Ninth Circle, there had been attempts by others to speak with him. And she had asked him to provide conversation, when they left Underworld. She appeared depressed. Perhaps Clara would... benefit from his speaking to her.

"Clara, you are an interesting person," he said.

"That sounds like a _bad_ thing," she said, looking up at him with a frown.

"It is not," he replied. "You are too nice for this world, and it brings you hurt that you do not know how to manage. But you are strong enough to withstand all manner of danger. That makes you an interesting person."

She flushed and looked away. "Still sounds bad."

"If you continue to be so nice, you will only hurt yourself more." Charon reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. Clara sighed, and put her hand on top of his, rubbing the leather. "Perhaps the real you is someone a little stronger, and you have not found her yet."

She rubbed his hand for a long time. She _was_ interesting. There was a definite physical aspect to her existence, a need to be touched. Even through her fright she continued to want to touch him, to be close to him. She had hugged him. It was causing him to feel a physical aspect of his own, one he had not felt for some time.

Something he would have to inform her of, sooner or later. Such feelings might impede his ability to protect her, if left unchecked. He felt the unpleasant arousal again, and grumbled to himself. Yes, he would have to tell her.

"I _do_ feel happiness," he said, slowly. "...When I am around you." She glanced up at him sharply, her face flushed with blood. "You are an attractive woman, Clara."

"Um," she whispered. "Thank you?"

"I am telling you this because you need to tell me I cannot feel that way about you," he added. "If I am not ordered to forget such feelings, it may become an issue."

She blinked in surprise. "How can you _forget?"_

"It is not easy," he conceded. "But it is better to stop with it before it becomes a problem."

Clara stood up, abruptly, shaking off his hand and pushing herself toward him. She wrapped her arms around him again, mashed her face into his chest, and sighed. "I'd never tell you that," she said, squeezing him tightly. "It's not fair."

"It will interfere with my ability to protect you," he told her, firmly.

"It made _me_ stronger," she muffled out. "When I had to protect someone I loved."

Charon laid his hands on her shoulders and stared down at the crown of hair pushing itself into his body. "I still do not think it is a good idea―"

Clara only laughed and squeezed him harder. He did not know what to think about this development―but if it made her happy to know that he "liked" her, he would not argue.

It was better that she be happy, than sustain injury because she had forgotten about her own needs.

* * *

She hummed under her breath in the dark tunnels, moving further into the Metro. All thoughts about her condition were out of her mind, now, even though he had reminded her that she needed to find a doctor. She was happy, still.

Charon followed behind her, watching her movements. If there was a threat, he would move to the front and take the hits meant for her. As they had agreed.

...Perhaps she was correct in her assumption that having feelings for another would only make the job easier. He did feel less strain, did not feel obligated to take damage for her. It was... _voluntary._ A strange thing for him to experience in conjunction with the contract.

But he still did not _want_ to think like that.

"What color was your hair?" she asked him, out of the blue.

"Red," he said.

"I guess it's stupid to try to picture you before..." She flushed and he saw the skin on the back of her neck turn bright red.

"I remember," he said. "But I do not linger on such thoughts."

"Well, it's _just―"_ She stopped and turned to look at him. "If I think about you without... _um..."_

Charon stared at her for a moment. "You may think what you wish, but it will not change anything. It is _not_ a reversible process."

"I know," she said, blushing redder.

"Such thoughts may be a nice diversion," he added, "but we must keep our eyes open, here. There is danger everywhere."

"I know," Clara said, looking at her feet. "I'm just... _curious."_

Charon looked down at the top of her head. "What is the benefit of you imagining that I am a normal person?" he asked, curious.

It was alarming how red she became, flushing all the way through her body. Even her hands took on the aspect, and the pink scar on her chest stuck out in sharp contrast.

"Um..." She covered her face. "I _like_ you," she said, muffled. "I thought it would be less _scary..._ if I pretended you weren't―"

Charon understood, then. The girl had been struggling with an attraction she didn't understand. Trying to justify her own feelings along with the memories she had of the Burke man. Presumably she had had a relationship with the man, and she was now―

She was now considering his earlier statements in addition to her own feelings. That made him nervous, because he did not think it was possible for her to feel the same as he did. There were... circumstances that made it difficult to picture in his mind, as reality.

He raised the skin above his eyebrow and considered her. "Are you serious?"

She nodded, muffled through her hands. "I'm sorry," she said, starting to cry. "I _told you_ ―I don't _know_ what's the right thing to say―"

"You should have given the Paladin a chance," Charon rasped, putting his hands over his chest and staring down at her. "It would be better for you not to fix such feelings onto me."

 _"I―"_ Clara sniffled.

"This is not a good idea," he interrupted, giving her no chance to reply. "There is no tactical benefit to our having a relationship."

She dropped her hands and rubbed her nose. "It's not about... _tactical,"_ she stammered, stupidly. "People just... get along, sometimes." She looked up at him. "We can _get along,_ can't we?"

Charon only stared at her. Could not form a proper response, staring into her wide blue eyes and seeing the stricken look on her face. He opened his mouth slightly, breathing evenly, as his mind tried to produce the necessary reply. Why she would consider him―even remotely―attractive, he had no frame of reference to understand. It had never occurred, before.

She watched his mouth. Her eyes riveted on the lipless opening, face flushed red and eyes rapt in attention. Charon breathed out in a puff of air and gave into her. It was hard to ignore her reactions. Or his own.

 _It is like being hit with a sledgehammer,_ he thought, _and how appropriate that she carries one._

"As you wish, Clara."


	15. Lost

Note: I still don't know what's going on here. Looking for input.

* * *

The Metro stank. Like pee, and all the unwashed bodies that had been through it, and like the decaying smell of a dead body. It was worse than Underworld―here, there was no one to clean up the mess, and it showed. Clara pulled her shirt up over her nose and bared her stomach, making a face. They were coming up on an open area―and that usually meant raiders or feral ghouls―

Charon followed her closely, almost close enough that she could feel the body heat she knew he was giving off. She didn't mind him being _close._ Not now that she'd... _told_ him, what she'd been thinking about but hadn't wanted to admit. What she was _afraid_ to admit.

She thought that was what started it, really. He was so warm―like two naked bodies pressed together, but he was that warm without having to be naked―she flushed and bit her lip. Shouldn't be thinking like _that._ It wasn't _time_ for things like that. There could be all kinds of awful things around them.

"Wait," she said, all of a sudden. The Metro sign―she didn't remember going through a Metro to get to the Citadel. They were going the wrong way, she could just feel it. "Where are we?"

Charon grumbled behind her, moving a hand to tap her left elbow. She looked down and saw her Pip-Boy, and remembered her maps. It still confused her, from time to time, but she was getting better at reading the tiny screen.

She scratched the bullet wound on her chest through her shirt and looked at it, frowning. "I dunno," she finally said, sighing in frustration. "Is there a map here...?"

Charon strode forward into the open area, glancing around, and kept his shotgun ready. He waved her to him, and she walked out to the little Metro map display, staring at it. Clara's mouth moved when she read, still. She was embarrassed by that.

"We need to go..." she traced the lines with her hand. She remembered the Anacostia crossing, that was the Metro she'd taken before. It was near Rivet City―if she went there, she could follow the coast line up to the Citadel.

She thought about Butch for a moment. He wouldn't―she flushed. He wouldn't _like_ that she was traveling with Charon. He wouldn't like it if she showed that she _liked_ him, either―

But Butch had told her to leave. And she could do what she wanted. It was the wasteland, and he refused to come with her―and he'd told her a long time ago she knew more about surviving out in the wastes than he ever would. Clara set her mouth. She still loved him. But he was a jerk and she didn't like his attitude, and they could never get along. Not since she was getting smarter...

Dumb Clara loved Butch without any thoughts. Smarter Clara was starting to realize he was just a stupid butthead with little to give her but... but _love._ She could get that wherever she went, she was pretty sure.

Didn't need to, though. She had Charon... _maybe._ If she wanted something. Didn't know how far she could push it. But he wasn't arguing with her now, and she―she was really, really curious, and it made her blush to think about _that_ ―about―

She turned and ran a hand along Charon's arm, catching his attention. She tapped the map when he turned and ran her finger down the line they were on and stopped at a junction. He watched, without saying a word.

"Friendship," he said, staring at the Metro map.

"That's where we should be going, right?" she asked, screwing up her face in concentration.

"If your intention is to head to Galaxy News Radio, yes." Charon turned and looked about the room. "I think we have gone the wrong way."

Clara sighed, and kicked a tin can. "I knew it," she said, coughing a little. Charon's head turned to her sharply, staring at her. She coughed again, without stopping, feeling her chest tightening.

"You are not better," he said, abruptly, and put a hand on her shoulder. "We need to find a doctor―"

"I'll be fine," she said weakly, waving a hand at him. "Let's... backtrack. Go up the river to the... Anchorage memorial." She felt tired, all of a sudden, and her throat began to close.

Clara fell to her knees. Charon immediately grabbed her up and sat her on a Metro bench, then pulled chems from her pack―

 _"No,"_ she said, pushing his hands away. No more chems―she didn't want to go back to that―

"You would rather _die?"_ Charon slapped her hands away and injected her with psycho and med-x at the same time. "I would not like to see that." He stared at her, his eyes digging into hers.

Clara closed her eyes to avoid the powerful stare and felt like she couldn't breathe―

* * *

When she opened them again she was on Charon's back, squished into his armor, as he walked across the bridge toward the Anchorage Memorial. She jerked a little, and he stopped, his hands tightening on her thighs. "Wha happ'nd," she slurred out.

"The chems are temporary," he said, moving again. She stared out at the river, her eyes blurred. "I told you, you need to find a doctor."

They walked across and up the way a little. Clara felt the tightness returning, and began to breathe quickly, puffing up his patchy hair. Charon moved faster, growling under his breath, ducking into a tall building standing on the edge of the river. Clara blinked, then gasped and started choking.

 _Dukov's place!_ She felt the panic set in, breathing too quickly―her words stuck in her throat and she couldn't tell him that she didn't want to be here―didn't want to _see_ that horrible place, picture herself beating _him_ on the stairs, see the _bloodstains_ she'd caused―

 _This was where she'd had to kill Mister Burke!_

Charon dropped her onto the funny heart-shaped bed and Clara kicked out, trying to push herself away from it. _"Nnnn―"_ she groaned out, grabbing at the bedclothes and pulling herself toward the door. Her arms shook, her legs kicked out weakly, her chest so tight she could see stars in her vision―

He made a threatening noise, grabbing her arm and pulling her back, jabbing her with a psycho injector. Clara's eyes were about as wide as she could make them, staring at the mess of blood and stinking guts on the floor nearby―

She remembered his bulging _eye,_ his mottled _skin,_ his awful _laugh_ ―the gurgling that came from his throat when he absorbed the radiation―she could see the splatter from her sledgehammer, halfway up the wall from where she'd slammed him―

Then, all she could see was a _ghoul_ _in front of her_ and his milky eyes on hers, mouth open and saying _something._ She dropped her eyes and watched him talking, watched the lipless mouth _moving,_ without hearing the words because all she could hear was her own heartbeat in her ears―and his hand was on her _cheek,_ rough skin against hers―

 _Oh, God, he was still alive!_ Mister Burke was _still alive,_ holding her down and _hurting_ her and she _had to fight him,_ because he was going to _hurt her_ _more_ and she didn't _want to do that_ anymore, _oh, God,_ and he was touching her _face_ again and he was going to _slap her again―_

Clara pulled back her arm and punched out, knocking Charon away from her, pushing herself back. The powerful feeling of psycho rushed through her, making everything go red for a moment. She swallowed hard, feeling the dryness of her throat―not tight anymore. She could _breathe._

"Oh, my _God,"_ she said, her heart pounding in her chest, her hand still clenching into a fist. Everything got clearer― _"Oh, my God!"_ she shrieked, moving herself forward on all fours and looking down at Charon, sobbing. "I'm so, _so, so sorry―"_

Charon grunted, putting a hand up to stop her from touching him. He touched his jaw, then spat out a tooth and glanced up at her. "Clara―" he said.

"I'm suh-ahh-orry, Cha―Charon," she sobbed out, covering her face. _"I―I―"_ Fat tears dripped from her face onto him. She wiped her face uselessly, her arms shaking and wobbling. She sat back on her heels and tried to stop the flow of snot down her chin.

Charon pushed himself up from the floor, wiping his mouth of blood. She sobbed for a minute, then pointed at the mess on the floor, blubbering. He stared at her, then turned to the broken and splattered remains. _"Mis―Mister Buh―Burke,"_ she sobbed out.

Charon made a strange noise in his throat, then pulled the cover from the bed and threw it over the gore, turning to face her. "Clara," he said, his voice strained.

 _"I killed him here,"_ she blubbered out. "I _killed_ him and he was _supposed to be dead_ but I thought _you_ were _him_ and I'm _so, so sorry―"_ Oh, God, she shouldn't have _done_ that―it was a _mistake_ and now―now he was going to be _mad―_ "I didn't _mean_ to hit _you_ ―I thought you were _him―"_ She could barely see through the tears.

He grumbled, lowering himself to the floor onto his knees, leaning over her, holding her face. "You are going to die," he said, firmly, his face frighteningly close to hers.

She felt her heart stop, in panic. It wrenched as it began to beat again. Clara reached up a hand to touch him, shaking. "I'm _sorry,"_ she mumbled, _"please."_ He was mad, she knew it, oh God, he was going to _kill_ her―

Charon stared at her for a moment, his hands staying on her face. After a moment her released her and made a concerned noise.

"Please," she begged, blinking back tears, trying to get her eyesight to clear. _"Please don't!"_

"What do you think is going to happen, Clara," he said, slowly.

"Don't _hurt_ me," she mumbled. _"Please!"_

Charon made the strangest face she'd ever seen him make, before. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her upright onto her knees. "I am _not_ going to hurt you," he said, carefully. "I can _not_ hurt you. The contract will not let me. Clara, you _know_ that."

Her heart fluttered, so close to his face, hands on her body and hers on his. Clara breathed out quickly, blinking rapidly. _"Wh-what?"_ she gasped out.

"The Burke man hurt you?" he asked, staring at her intensely.

"If―If I didn't _behave,"_ she stammered out. "I was bad―" She moved her hand up to his collar, grabbing hold of him as she wobbled. "He _made_ me behave," she mumbled, closing her eyes.

Charon growled under his breath, and she felt the muscles in his neck moving under her fingers. She opened her eyes to see him staring at the blanket, his eyes narrowed.

"Charon," she mumbled. "I don't _feel_ good."

"Where should we go?" he asked, turning his head back to her. She stared up at the red muscles in his cheeks, feeling herself get weaker every second that passed. She... she really was going to die, if she didn't find a doctor―

"Where is a doctor, Clara?" Charon held her under both arms, staring at her intensely again.

"Rivet City," she mumbled, pulling herself up and laying her head on his shoulder. "Doctor Li."

Charon grunted, picked her up around the legs, and carried her out of the building. She closed her eyes and rubbed her head against his neck, feeling the heat, letting his pace lull her to sleep.


	16. The Best Offense

Note: Not happy with some parts of this, feels weird to read. Working on it. Do like the ending

* * *

He did not stop for anything. Clara's head, laid onto his neck, started to feel cold, the sweat that built up on her brow catching the wind and dripping down into his collar. He was warm, and she was overheating, being so near to him.

He was not being a good bodyguard. He should _not_ have let her know his thoughts. It had only led to something worse; him becoming distracted by emotion and her becoming deathly ill as a result. Charon's boots pounded the road south, past a raider fortress and around an embankment, wading through the water and seeing the Super Mutants trying to chase him. He did not stop; he could see the rusted tub that was Rivet City ahead of him.

She had really laid into him, when she punched him. Had he known that place was an ill memory for her, he would not have gone inside. He could feel the swelling in his jaw, which would not show on the outside. It was... _satisfying,_ having taken that punch. He was somewhat prideful that she had hit him―even unintentionally―and he had not become unconscious.

Clara's order stood out in his mind. "Rivet City. Doctor Li." He pushed through, shielding her from the bullets that dug into his back and legs, nearly running up the metal ramp and onto the bridge. Clara had started to seize, again―

"Where is the doctor!" he barked out at the guard, who jumped at his fast approach.

She pointed at the door to the right, then moved to open it with wide eyes. Clara was jerking in his arms, her arms flinging away from his neck and legs shuddering under his grasp. He felt the alarm, but willed himself to remain calm, clutching her tightly so that she would not fall from his grasp.

The guard led him directly to the doctor, an older man who immediately ordered her onto the gurney and asked for payment. Charon's angry growl stilled his request, temporarily.

He watched the doctor working, motionlessly. Clara had stopped sweating, but looked pale, lying on the gurney as still as death itself. The doctor called in a woman to help him, an Asian woman who looked distressed at seeing Clara in such a way. Her comments indicated she knew the girl, more than simply in passing.

Charon remained at her side throughout the treatment. He did not want to see her die. Selfishly, he recalled what had happened when his Enclave employer had died. The pain that would come, until he found another person to take up his contract. He would feel sadness upon her death, but he excelled at stemming his emotion. At not feeling.

But that was before Clara. Clara seemed to draw out those emotions without effort. She fed off the positive and the negative, whatever her actions brought on her, and used them to keep herself going. Her defense was more of an offense, and it seemed as if it was meant to make or break the people that might protect her.

And he was not sure he could withstand her offense.

It was his fault that she was so ill, for dragging her into the Metro and not immediately seeking out a doctor. He did not _like_ the implication that he had been broken in his duty by Clara's defense; that he should be proven a negative influence on the world, as _Ahzruhkhal_ had been. He felt guilt and shame, and showed his displeasure with himself by making a grating noise deep in his throat.

The assistant―the Doctor Li that Clara had mentioned―gave him a startled look. She continued to show care for the girl. She seemed to think the seizures were brought on by an epileptic disorder, one possibly inherited from her mother. She removed herself from the clinic when Clara began to show signs of improvement.

The doctor eventually declared her condition stable, and turned to Charon. "Well, she's out of trouble, now. ...Let's talk payment, _shall_ we?"

Charon practically threw the bag of caps at the man before removing Clara from the gurney and carrying her down to the Science Lab, intent on relocating the Li woman.

* * *

Clara came around after a few hours, but Charon had not put her down since he picked her up. He stood stock-still in the Lab, watching the scientists at work, and spoke briefly with Doctor Li.

Doctor Li understood the girl. She had delivered the girl at birth, apparently. She indicated she was aware of Clara's diminished mental acuity. She had known Clara's father and mother, and she had a genuine concern for the girl. It was pleasant to know that there were people out in the wastes who did not desire to abuse or manipulate Clara.

His back and legs were aching from the gunshot wounds he had sustained, but he ignored that. Kept his attention on his employer―on Clara, who laid limp in his arms. Having thoughts about her. It was... a pleasant diversion from the pain of multiple injuries. He enjoyed it, except for the guilt that nagged at him for allowing her to become so ill.

He felt the hole where the missing tooth had been, the injury that Clara had caused out of fear. She did not need him to protect her, physically. It was marked, her ability to put down a threat. No, she didn't need someone to protect her physically; she needed an emotional defender against the terrible things that had happened to her. A trauma sponge to soak up the nightmares that so plagued her.

It was not his strong suit, being a psychic protector. He was not sure he could capably protect her from the terror that the wasteland brought, if she continued in the same manner.

Clara stirred and winced, in his arms, making a small noise. He turned his head to stare down at her, seeing her pale skin striking in color against his black leather. She opened her big blue eyes and blinked at the room before looking up at Charon and laying her head against his shoulder, contentedly. She sighed and moved one hand to rest against his chest, rubbing him gently through the leather.

It _was_ very pleasant to think about Clara, regardless of the situation. Charon's hands squeezed her as gently as he could manage, and she glanced up at him with a tiny smile. He would have returned it, but he was interrupted.

"Is she awake?" Doctor Li asked, approaching him. Charon nodded, roughly, and turned to face her.

"Doctor Li..." Clara said, weakly. "I―"

"You almost _died,"_ Li said, frowning. "Clara, you know better than to let yourself get that sick. Your dad was a _doctor!"_

"It was an accident," she replied, looking ashamed.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," Li said. "I thought we would lose everything―" She pressed her mouth together, then sighed. "But, I guess, it turned out... Elder Lyons contacted us after you left to get the G.E.C.K.―did you get it?"

Clara nodded. "Please put me down, Charon."

He complied, lowering her gently to the floor. Clara rubbed her lower abdomen and grimaced. She frowned and closed her eyes. Li looked up to Charon, then back to Clara. "Clara..."

"I'm hungry," she mumbled. "Doctor Li," she said, looking up at the woman. "Thank you for helping me."

"It wasn't me that helped you," Li said. "Preston deals with medical emergencies on on ship. Listen, Clara..."

The two women spoke for a moment in lowered tones, as Charon watched on. They spoke about the possibility of epilepsy, but Clara did not fully understand the problem. She was better now. No need to worry any further.

Clara rubbed her arms and told Li about the G.E.C.K. and the Enclave. About how she was going to help the Brotherhood to install the equipment in the purifier, as soon as she returned to the Citadel. Li seemed to already know this, but patiently listened to Clara's prattle.

Li agreed that it was time, to finish the work that James had started. Clara smiled, somewhat happily, and excused herself from the Lab. "Let's get some food," she told Charon. "I'm so _hungry._ I think I could eat a whole Brahmin."

"I am glad to see you well," Charon replied.

"All better," she murmured, leading him down to the bottom of the ship by one hand.

"Yes," he agreed, but he could not help but wonder if everything was indeed, all better.

* * *

Clara paid for two meals, going so far as to place a beer down in front of him, handing him a plate of something that he could identify neither by sight or smell. Perhaps he had been in Underworld for far too long; he could not say how long it had actually been. He was glad to not be stuck in the grimy bar, any longer.

She ate without a word, enthusiastically shoveling food into her mouth in the manner of a small child and making a mess. Charon watched, carefully angling himself to see the majority of the room. She was not without danger, anywhere she might go.

His assumptions were correct when a young black-haired man came up behind Clara. At first the man had stared at Charon for a few minutes, drinking a bottle of whiskey and looking both scared and angry. Charon had ignored him; stares were not uncommon for him to experience, no matter the reason.

"Hey," the man said, flicking her ear. _"Clara."_

She nearly choked on her food, swallowing hard. "Butch!" she said, turning in her seat.

"What's goin' on here," the man said, looking at Charon. His voice was hard, his eyes glittering with anger.

"What do you mean?" Clara asked, innocently. She looked up at Butch and frowned. "Nothing's going on. I'm eating."

"You know damn _well_ what I mean," Butch said, laying a hand on Clara's shoulder. He stared at Charon with untamed malice in his eyes.

Charon made a decision then, one that he was not sure would pan out, but was ultimately his own choice and not influenced by the contract. He stood and reached out, immediately removing the man's hand from Clara's shoulder, and was met by a violent reaction.

Butch backed away and drew a switchblade, dropping himself into a combat stance. Clara turned wide eyes onto Charon, then back to Butch, and her mouth dropped open. _"Stop!"_ she shrieked, loudly echoing around the bar. Everyone in the room went silent.

Charon remained standing, staring down the man, his hand itching to grab his shotgun and end this Butch's life. Could not shoot him; the man was not a threat to Clara, and most _certainly_ not a threat to him.

"What are you doing?" Clara asked Butch, bewildered.

"You're sittin' with one of them _things,_ and you don't see the problem?" Butch rolled his eyes at her and kept the blade out, staring at Charon. "Jesus, you're so fuckin' _dumb."_

Clara blinked, then stood up and turned to Butch. She reached out and grabbed his hand, twisting it painfully, and turned him around so that his back was facing her. "I'm not _dumb!"_ she said, angrily. "You didn't want to come with me, remember? I needed help. Charon is helping me."

"Ow, fuck!" the man writhed under Clara's grasp, trying to loose his hand. "Let me _go,_ you idiot!"

"I'm not an _idiot!"_ she shrieked, pushing him forward onto the floor. "Stop calling me stupid, Butch! _I'm not_ _stupid!"_ She put her hands to her face and started to cry. _"I'm not!"_

That did it, for him. Charon moved around the table, laid a hand on her shoulder, and moved her behind him, slowly. Clara reached up and held onto his arm, wiping tears away with her other hand, pulling on him. He stared down at the man, who sprang up from the floor and wiped his own nose where it had been bloodied. Put the full force of his ire onto this ridiculously coiffed idiot, watching him squirm.

"The fuck is _wrong_ with you, nosebleed?" Butch asked, angrily. "Running around with a monster― _after_ _that bastard tried to kill you?"_

Clara's hand tightened on Charon's shoulder, her crying intensifying. He growled under his breath at the man.

"You _gotta_ be dumb as shit, to want to walk around with them fuckin' _things!"_ Butch said. "You shoulda stayed on the tub with me!"

Charon looked back at Clara and saw how upset she was. This was a moment he could use to prove to himself, that his acumen as a bodyguard was not worthless. He needed permission, however. The man was not an active threat and he was not sure how Clara would react. "Clara," Charon said in a low tone, "should I stop this man?"

"N-no," she mumbled. "No. It's _my_ fault he's scared."

"I ain't _scared!"_ the man yelled, and lunged at Charon, his switchblade out.

Charon's mouth twitched into a half-smile. The problem of permission had solved itself, then.


	17. Willingly Scared

Clara grunted when Charon yanked his arm out of her grip and pulled his knife with the other, moving forward to stop Butch from attacking him. She tumbled backwards onto the floor, landing on her butt, and blinked in surprise―

Butch _was_ scared, no matter what he said. He was scared because Clara was with a ghoul―he was angry that she had one with her, after what Mister Burke had _done_ and what he'd _become―_

Maybe he still thought he knew better than she did. He was treating her like he used to, down in the Vault, like she was too _stupid_ to know better, even if she did. She didn't like being treated like that―

She watched as Butch sliced out with his toothpick, aiming for Charon's face. Charon avoided the jab, easily. She couldn't let him hurt Charon, and she didn't want Charon to hurt him―Butch wasn't a bad guy. He was _dumb_ ―like _she_ was―and... maybe he still loved her, but that wasn't a good reason to act like he _was._

Just a stupid person, like her. She hadn't even thought about Butch being in Rivet City because her stomach had been growling with hunger. Because she had almost _died_ and she wasn't even thinking about him, at all―

Now her stomach was doing nervous flops, and she had to stop them from fighting. "Charon, don't hurt him!" she yelled, pushing herself up, shakily, and falling onto her butt again. She winced and stood up, slowly. _"Charon―"_

The ghoul grunted, and grabbed Butch's wrist as he jabbed at him again, turning his head slightly to glance at her. His ice-colored eyes were annoyed, but he was half-smiling. What was he thinking? She couldn't tell. This wasn't _funny,_ so why was he smiling like that?

Clara moved forward and put her hand on the both of theirs, pushing them down and glaring at Butch. "You stop this, right _now,"_ she said, as meanly as she could muster. Butch moved his eyes to hers, his arm shaking with the effort of trying to hold against Charon. Clara's hand tightened on the two of them, making Butch grunt in pain. "Let him go, Charon."

The ghoul released his hand, slowly, moving away a foot or two, and stared down at her with that weird smile. Clara squeezed Butch's hand tighter, hearing the crack of bones, and dropped him. He yelped and clutched his hand to his chest, glaring at her.

 _"You bitch―"_ he started, making a pained face.

She'd finally _had_ it. Enough of _everything._ Butch and her had some pretty bad fights, but she'd always won them; she was stronger than him even as a little girl. And when he used her, back then―told her she was his, but she couldn't tell anyone they were together... she knew that was something bad. But she hadn't _cared._ She'd only wanted Butch to _like_ her, so they wouldn't have to fight anymore.

But even when he _did_ like her, they still fought. It would _never_ change. She looked at him with a small pout. Didn't want to―to _hurt_ him. But she had to.

"Butch, you need to stop," she said, firmly. "Stop hurting Charon, stop trying to―to do whatever you're doing. I―" she paused, and glanced back at Charon. "I _need_ Charon to help me finish my dad's job. You didn't want to come with me, and I need the help."

"Right," he said, moodily. "Right, because you're so damn _good_ at being out there, and _I'm_ just a scared little _baby―"_

Clara's temper flared. "You _are!"_ she said, too loudly. "You're _acting_ like a baby! What you're scared of―" she clenched her fists "―that was _my_ fault, and I don't know how to make it _better!"_

Butch stared at her, flicking his hair out of his eyes with a head movement. Clara kept talking. "I _have_ to finish my dad's job! It meant a lot to him! ...It's the only way I can fix― _anything!"_ She tried to stop the sadness from welling up inside of her. Her voice grew tight, tears in her eyes threatening to spill. "I can't even sleep, because I― _I got him killed,_ Butch! And―I don't know _how_ to make things better for _you―"_

"You went out and found a bigger, meaner, _uglier_ version of that _asshole."_ Butch straightened himself up a little, glaring at her. "Because you're trying not to be _scared_ of them things?"

"If that's what it _takes,_ yes!" she said, a little relieved that he understood. She hadn't really understood her own feelings for a long time, but she wasn't scared _anymore―_

Butch scoffed. "What _ever,_ Clara. That ain't gonna make it all _better,_ like a fucking cure or some shit." He looked up at Charon. "This one's gonna turn on you like _that one_ did, and then you'll be _fucked."_ He rubbed his hand. "Fucking _zombies."_

"Charon _won't,"_ she said firmly, ignoring his bad attitude. "He's not _allowed."_

Butch squinted, then rolled his eyes at her. "Oh, _I get it._ You couldn't make _me_ do what you wanted, so you went out and found some monster that _would._ Clara's in charge, oh _boy._ Let's let _her_ be the boss. She ain't gonna get _us_ killed," he said, sarcastically. He motioned at Charon, his eyes full of jealousy. "You sucking _him_ off? What's a zombie _taste_ like, Clara?"

She snapped, tears flooding down her face, her chest tight and her body shaking with emotion. How _dare_ he―! That was― _filthy,_ saying something like that! She― _she hadn't ever_ ―she just wanted―

Just wanted someone to _love_ her, someone to _be there_ for her―and Butch _hadn't!_ All he'd wanted was her to make him feel good, like Mister Burke had―everyone wanted her for _that,_ except for Charon―

Clara slammed Butch in the face, her fist shaking and eyes on fire. "I NEVER _DID!"_ she shrieked. "I _NEVER―"_

Butch crumpled to the floor, and Clara covered her face. She sobbed, lowering herself to the floor. Butch groaned, and blood began to pool under his head where he'd fallen.

"I think we should leave," Charon said, moving beside her. "Clara."

She let him pull her up into a standing position and move her out of the Rudder, sobbing the whole time. She didn't _want_ to hurt Butch―but he'd hurt _her,_ with his words, cutting into her like that, and she _had_ to fight back―

Just like Mister Burke, but she wouldn't _ever_ kill Butch. _She was a good person!_

 _Wasn't_ she?

* * *

The sun was setting when Clara stumbled down into Anacostia Crossing, lighting up the sky with a pretty orange. She fell onto her knees at the bottom of the escalators, wiping her face and feeling cold. Shivering, sniffling, sobbing.

She was so _stupid._ Why did she ever think she could have _anything_ nice―

Charon moved to the bottom of the stairs, sitting down, and picked her up around the shoulders. He pulled her to him, onto his lap, and held her firmly. "Clara," he rasped, moving a hand to brush her wet hair out of her face. "Do not be sad. Do not cry."

"I can't _stop,"_ she sobbed, grabbing out at his hand and holding it against her face. "I―"

Charon cleared his throat and rubbed her cheek with his thumb, the roughness of his finger scraping at her skin. "You are not stupid," he said, lowering his voice. "You have survived for this long, and you are strong―"

"I'm not _strong!"_ she said, feeling the tears falling off her face and onto her knees. Charon tightened his arm around her stomach, pressing her into his chest. "I'm _stupid_ and I _don't know what I'm doing―"_

"You _do_ know," he said, his hand squeezing her face. "You are helping the Brotherhood. You are doing a _good_ thing."

"It doesn't change the past," she mumbled, going limp in his arms. "I'm still a _bad_ person. I _hurt_ him―"

Charon made an aggravated noise, then turned her roughly to face him. "He was being unreasonable. Men like that never change. You will, in time. You must be patient."

"Not _me,"_ she said, staring at his collarbone. She dropped her hands to her lap and leaned her head against his neck. "I'll be stupid _forever."_

"You think you are stupid because that asshole called you so?" Charon stroked her face.

"I _am_ stupid." Clara closed her eyes and felt the roughness of his armor against her side. "I just―I _am."_

"You are letting your stupidity define you, then?" Charon rasped. "You will fail, Clara. You are faltering."

"Whatever," she mumbled, sucking snot up into her head.

Charon made a horrible grating noise, then grabbed her head with both hands and brought her up to his face. "You are not this person," he said, firmly. _Scarily._ Clara's eyes popped open to stare up at him, then dropped to his mouth. Watched him speaking, heard the scariness in his voice.

"You are not this person," Charon repeated.

She didn't know what to say. She felt like the world was _too_ much―too hard to deal with―Clara reached up and put her arms around his neck, then pressed her mouth into his, kissing him.

She didn't think he would let her. Thought he would push her away. She just wanted to feel good for a little while, enough to make her forget about―about everything _bad_ that had _ever_ happened―just wanted to make the bad things _go away,_ like they had in the past. When she kissed Mister Burke―when she kissed Butch―she could _forget._

Better than the chems. She liked it better, and it didn't make her feel sick―

Charon moved one of his hands to the back of her head and held her, moving his lips against hers, roughly kissing her back. His mouth felt like leather, and the bumpiness sent a shiver down her spine. His other hand trailed down her back, moving to hold her at the waist, crushing her to him. She made a pained noise and he immediately released her.

"I am sorry," he said, before she could speak.

"It's okay," she whispered, and looked away with a blush. "I shouldn't have..."

"You said we could get along," Charon said, and she glanced up and saw his mouth twitching in a smile. "This is getting along."

Clara blushed deeper. "You..." she looked down again. "I'm not good at being the boss―"

"Clara," Charon said, rubbing her hair. "You cannot _not_ be 'the boss'. I am honor-bound to protect you. I will always do so, unless you order me away." He squeezed her side roughly. "If you desire something, it is my job to obtain it, or to perform a service."

"You're a _slave,"_ she mumbled, remembering that he had no choice. He had to follow orders, like he had with that other ghoul. If she used him like _she'd_ been used―if she _made_ him love her―she tried not to cry. It just made her _bad_ in the same way as Mister Burke, forcing him.

He was so warm―she felt herself sweating. "I don't want a slave," she whispered. "It's not _right."_

"I willingly do as you bid," Charon said. "But I am _not_ a slave. I want to do as you say." He reached out and tilted up her face.

Clara blinked and stared at him, and it felt like her cheeks would explode with blood. "Charon―" she whispered, unsure what to say.

"May I kiss you?" he asked, slowly. Clara whimpered. He was _scaring_ her. She wasn't sure anymore, if she wanted―she _did,_ but she was scared she would mess it up again.

"I―" she closed her eyes and tightened her arms around his neck. "I don't know."

Charon stroked her hair for a moment, then loosened his grip. "You can tell me when you are ready," he said, and breathed out onto her hair.

She leaned her head onto her arm, against his neck, and sighed. After a moment, she removed herself from him and led him by one hand down into the Metro, away from the setting sun. Away from the prying eyes of the world.

She wouldn't use him. Not if she could help it. It wasn't right, and she didn't want to mess this up like she had everything else―

She had to be _very_ careful, and _not_ be stupid.


	18. Second Chance

Note: still a little lost

* * *

"Guess you got your wish, Dusk," Glade said, leaning back in his chair. He looked around the War Room, at the other members of the Pride, Sarah talking with her father and Gallows looking disinterestedly at the table top. "We're going after the Enclave, finally. You think we have the manpower to take them down?"

Dusk smiled at him, viciously. "We'll be triumphant, of course. This action is well-overdue. Too bad we have to wait on that stupid girl."

Glade shrugged, and crossed his arms over his chest. Didn't have much to say about Clara―didn't want to think about it. She'd _embarrassed_ him. Shut down by a girl, a young girl of low intelligence who should have been an easy target, and now his pride was wounded.

First time in his entire life he'd scared off a female. He scoffed and looked over at Gallows, who turned his head at the Paladin and stared at him. That jerk, couldn't turn around and leave when he saw someone being intimate. Glade narrowed his eyes at the man. Gallows hadn't even been furtive about it, just stared at the two of them until Clara ran off.

"The hell are you looking at, Gallows," he said, irritated.

Gallows shook his head and glanced at Sarah, then looked back to him. "I don't know why you expected _privacy,"_ he said, his voice free of any emotion. "You know how hard it is to be alone, around here."

"Most people don't stick around and _watch,"_ Glade replied, glaring at him. "It was none of your business, man."

"What's _this_ all about," Dusk asked, moving a finger between the both of them.

"Nothing, Dusk―" Glade uncrossed his arms and laid his hands on the table.

Gallows shook his head. "Just Glade being stupid, trying to seduce a stupider girl."

"Wait, who?" Dusk asked, leaning forward.

"The Wanderer," Gallows said, shrugging. "I walked in on him putting his tongue down her throat."

Dusk turned in her seat to face Glade. "You _seriously―"_

"Shut _up,_ Gallows, Jesus Christ," Glade said, his face flushed with anger. "It's nobody's business but my _own."_ He glanced at Dusk. "Besides, nothing came of it."

"Yeah, because she ran off all flustered, and poor Glade had to go running after with his tail between his legs," Gallows said, sounding mildly amused.

Dusk started laughing and Glade turned his attention to the table, trying to imagine he was somewhere else. Their attempts to get him angry had worked. They'd forget about it sooner if he didn't let them see how badly it annoyed him. _Assholes._

But, dammit, he was so damn _annoyed._ Thought he'd had her number―the girl had pushed herself up into him, she'd _wanted_ him to kiss her. Didn't understand what had gone _wrong;_ why she'd run off like she had. Even if she'd had a 'bad time', before―he knew how to play it slow. She couldn't think he was gonna hurt her, not the way they'd played.

And not when she very clearly _wanted_ him to make her feel good. Glade grumbled and stared at the table top.

Sarah looked over at the group and frowned. "Men, we're gearing up for war. Let's be professional, please?" She set a cold eye on them. "The Lone Wanderer is expected to show up at any moment."

Dusk laughed even harder, slapping a hand down on the table. "I doubt she'll even _come_ back!" she managed, holding one hand to her chest, sputtering.

Sarah raised an eyebrow and moved toward Dusk, standing at the end of the table. "Explain," she said, authoritatively.

Glade looked away. Didn't want to have to tell her about his failure. Would _have_ to, and it was all Gallows' fault―

"Paladin Glade was trying his very best to scare off the Wanderer," Gallows said.

"That's _not_ what happened, Gallows―" Glade interjected.

"Quiet!" Sarah leaned down over the table, putting herself near to Glade's face. "What did you do."

"I kissed her, that's all, Sarah. Honest Injun." He held up a hand and put the other across his heart. "Nothing untoward happened, I swear."

"Other than her running away from you, sweating up a storm?" Gallows asked. He definitely sounded amused. _Weirdo freak._ Glade glared at him.

Sarah stared at Glade. "Glade, she was only here for _two hours."_

He shrugged. "Usually doesn't take _that_ long," he muttered. Might as well own up to it. Hell, he was proud of how quick he could get the ladies to swoon. Like to see Gallows lay claim to something like that, he thought, shooting a glare at the man.

Dusk couldn't breathe, smacking the table in her laughter. "I can't _believe_ you!"

Sarah opened her mouth, probably to browbeat him, but however it would have gone, it didn't matter. At that moment, the girl walked into the room and tossed a metal briefcase onto the table. She was covered in blood and bullet wounds, and her face was stained with dirt and tear trails. Behind her was the ghoul she'd had with her. He stood very close to her, as she blinked wearily at the group and wiped her face half-heartedly.

"Clara!" Sarah said, startled. She moved in a quick jerk toward her, but stopped herself.

"'I... got the G.E.C.K.," Clara stammered, waving an arm at the briefcase.

"Excellent work," Elder Lyons said, smiling warmly at the girl. "We can now move forward and free the purifier."

Clara nodded, slowly. The ghoul rumbled something under his breath at the girl. "Um," she said, and patted at her pants pocket, fumbling to open it. "I also got... _this...?"_

The girl reached down and pulled her pocket open, lifting out a vial of yellow liquid, which she placed on the table. "It's a virus," Clara mumbled, leaning her head backward onto the ghoul's shoulder and closing her eyes. "The president... wanted to put it in the water."

"Clara needs to rest before the assault," Sarah said, standing up straighter and looking down on the girl. Elder Lyons nodded, as Gallows passed him the vial. He turned it over in his hands, frowning. Sarah looked down at the Pride. "Dusk, find her―"

"I'll do it," Glade volunteered, quickly. "I know exactly where to take her."

Sarah shot him a scathing glance. Dusk chuckled under her breath, leaning back and staring at him with her arms crossed. Glade kept his face free of anger, thankfully. Finally, Sarah nodded, and waved him off. _"Go,_ then," she muttered.

Glade stood and moved to the doorway, motioning the ghoul to follow him. Clara was too weak to walk, apparently. The ghoul picked her up and began to carry her, as she yawned and clutched at him.

Glade managed to ignore the indignation entirely, as he walked away. It was not usual for him to be the butt of jokes among the Pride's members. He didn't like it, but he was perfectly capable of turning it around on them. Just needed _time..._ and he needed to talk to Clara.

She looked as comfortable as could be, in the arms of her bodyguard. It annoyed Glade, being shown up by the ghoul. The ghoul who had taken a great deal of damage, same as Clara had. He was still walking, even through all that injury. It shouldn't have been _possible._

 _Should have let me carry her,_ he thought, shaking his head. As it was, he might drop her. ... _I hope he drops her._

He disliked the ghoul, obviously. Had gotten in between him and Clara when he was trying to get her to give him another chance. Acting like Glade was the enemy. Hell, all he'd wanted was a little _fun_ with her. She'd wanted it, too.

"It hurts," Clara mumbled, and the ghoul adjusted his grip on her. Glade smirked a little, to himself. Damn ghoul should count himself lucky he was even _allowed_ to touch her.

"Clara," Glade asked, looking at her as she lay in the ghoul's arms. "Could you and I... have a _talk?_ I didn't really have the chance to apologize, before."

"I dunno," she said, sighing tiredly.

"I _promise_ I'll behave," he said, trying to act friendly.

"I guess so," she muttered.

 _"...Without_ your companion?"

Clara turned her head to look at Glade and blinked, sleepily. She bit her lip and looked back at the ghoul, then sighed again. "Okay―" she said. "Um, Charon?"

"This is not wise," the ghoul muttered, staring at the paladin with a murderous expression. "You are injured and need to rest."

"Charon," Clara said. _"Please_ put me down?"

The ghoul stopped in mid-stride, gently lowered her to the ground and stood silently. He was staring at Glade with a terrible expression, and it unnerved him. He turned to Clara, offering her an arm to hold onto. She took his elbow, staring at the floor.

"I'll be okay," she told the ghoul, staring up at him. "Come find me in five minutes, okay?"

The ghoul grunted out an affirmative. Clara and Glade walked slowly down the hall, allowing her to limp around. Glade frowned. If she couldn't afford a doctor, how could she hope to survive the Enclave assault? She would die _very_ quickly.

It was a moment before he began to speak, waiting until the ghoul was out of earshot. "I honestly didn't mean to _scare_ you, back then," he said. "You could have told me to stop, you know."

Clara sighed, and leaned a little more heavily on his arm. "I know," she mumbled. She stopped walking for a moment. "But..." She sniffled. "...I wasn't ready."

"It's alright to say _no,_ Clara." Glade reached over and held her by the opposite shoulder. "Hell, I got into trouble for being 'mean' to you."

She stared up at him for a moment, her eyes looking over his, flushing. "I-I'm _sorry,_ Glade," she said, looking down. Her face reddened dramatically. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"Tell you what, though," he said gently, bending himself down to her eye-level. "I don't mind. I know you're a good kid. And a _real_ good kisser."

She nodded, and looked down and away, her face red as hell. Damn. That was exactly what he wanted; if she was flustered about just kisses, how cute would she be undressed and going at it? It was _worth_ the trouble to take a second whack at her.

His mouth twitched into a smile. "I accept your apology," he said, and swept her legs up into his arms, carrying her down the hallway. "Let's find you a bed. You look like you're about to pass out, babe."

Clara made a funny noise, and put her hands into her lap, staring down at them as he moved through the hall. She didn't say a single word as they moved.

 _God bless the dumb ones,_ he thought. _Easy to lead and easy to love._ With a little more persuasion, he'd be right back in that saddle. Glade grinned to himself at the thought. He'd get his, soon enough.

His smile faded. But they had survive the coming battle against the Enclave, first.

* * *

Glade was watching her sleep, noticing the ragged breaths she was drawing, when the ghoul came back. Immediately he shouldered Glade out of the way and away from her, turning and standing between them.

Stupid ghoul might be tall, and might be tough, but he had nothing on Glade in terms of weight and power. Hell, he was willing to bet that _Clara_ could probably take the ghoul down with her bare fists, if she needed to. She was real strong, with them arms made of iron bars. Glade liked that about her; she wasn't hard all over, but buff where it was important. She was also a sight nicer than the Brotherhood women with their firm muscles and attitude.

"You don't gotta be so damn rude," Glade said, staring him down. "I won't _hurt_ her."

"My job is to protect her," the ghoul said, glaring at him. "So I am. From whatever I deem a _threat."_

"I'm _not_ a threat!" he said, glaring right back. "She was perfectly fine with everything! Not _my_ fault someone walked in on us."

The ghoul made a grumbling noise in his throat and remained still. A warning noise. _Go away._ Glade rolled his eyes at him and moved to leave.

"I'll come to check in on her, here in a few," he said, pointedly. "Elder Lyons will want to lay out the plan for taking back the purifier, and we can't let her sleep through it. Don't think she'd like that." The ghoul only grumbled.

As he walked away he shook his head at the protectiveness of the bodyguard, and Clara's trust in him. He would have to be real _careful,_ around that one.


	19. 2-1-6

Note: I know this isn't a very good ending but I need to focus on other things. I love Clara half to death and I can't give her the attention she needs right now.

Blame the husband for the Sloth moment. He's been waiting for that one since StSttF began.

* * *

Clara woke up in a strange bed, and she couldn't see Charon―

She sat up quickly and moaned in pain. All of a sudden her head was dizzy, and she felt so weak she could barely move her legs out of the bed. Her hands shook, her mouth was dry, and she felt sore all over, just― _terrible._ She couldn't help but be _scared._

It was ten times _worse_ than when she'd had the reaction to the radscorpion sting. She didn't want to be like that―maybe Doctor Li was right and she had a problem. Should have listened to her. Doctor Li said she could die, if she wasn't careful.

 _Maybe... maybe I'm dying now,_ she thought to herself. _I don't want to―_

Charon came into the little room just as she started crying, wiping her eyes and trying to keep herself from making too much noise. He put down what he was carrying and knelt down in front of her, laying his hands on her upper body, staring at her without blinking.

"Clara," he rasped.

"I'm―I'm―" she coughed and sputtered, trying to get control of herself. "I'm really sick," she said, wiping her nose messily. "I feel like I'm _dying―"_

"You are not dying," Charon said, moving one hand to grab a bottle of water. "You are hungry and dehydrated and injured." He removed his hands and uncapped the bottle, handing it to her. "You need rest, but we do not have time. Drink this."

Clara lifted the bottle and drank, shaking. "Are you―are you _sure?"_ she said, wobbling.

He chuckled, and patted her shoulder. "I am sure," he said. "Drink the water."

She finished the bottle and then chewed her way through a few boxes of old food, trying not to think about anything. Charon watched her in silence, removing the trash when she was through.

"Charon," she said slowly, looking up at him. "You... you don't sleep."

"I do not," he said.

"If..." she wiped her nose, thinking hard. "We're supposed to help the Brotherhood get the Enclave out of the purifier. If I _die..."_

"You will _not,"_ he said. "Not only will the Brotherhood be there to keep you safe, but _I_ am going with you." The way he said it made it sound like it was easier than it should be. Like it was nothing for him to protect her up against a whole lot of scary soldiers in power armor, with powerful weapons.

It made her feel _better._ Charon was a lot tougher than her. He would keep her safe as best he could. "If I _were_ to die," she said, "I want you to put me where they put my dad."

Charon made a terrible noise, and placed a hand on her shoulder. He looked down at her and turned the corners of his mouth down. "You will _not_ die," he said, firmly.

Clara sighed and rubbed her face. Even if Charon was gonna protect her, there was still a _chance_ ―she looked away and tried not to think about that. "What do we do now?" she asked.

"Paladin Glade mentioned that Elder Lyons is going to debrief the Pride," Charon said. "He suggested you would not want to sleep through that."

"Okay," she said, standing up. "Let's go do that."

* * *

Elder Lyons went on and on, and Clara couldn't follow what he and Sarah were saying, so she moved over to the stairs and sat down for a moment.

She watched everyone, seeing the people in the Lab scurrying around and rushing to get things ready. Elder Lyons was pushing Rothschild to start up the robot in the middle of the Lab―she stared up at the tall thing, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. If Liberty Prime was going to walk with them―

She definitely wanted to see. Reminded her of the holotapes her and Amata used to watch. A tiny smile started at the edges of her mouth, remembering the old sci-fi tapes with their robots and aliens, the awesome lasers and funny voices. Clara had always liked those tapes, and Amata would sit with her even if she wasn't a fan. She would say it was because Clara loved it so much, no one else had a _choice_ but to join in.

"It's pretty impressive, ain't it," a soldier said, coming up beside her. He was carrying a big gun and wearing a full set of armor. Clara stood up, keeping her eyes on Liberty Prime, her eyes lit up in excitement.

"He's so _cool,"_ she said, forgetting herself for a moment. The soldier chuckled, and she knew right off the bat that it was Glade―by his laugh―her face caught fire. Thought about everything that had gone on, again―and she felt guilty, because she hadn't meant it to go that far―

"You got some sleep," he said, nodding at her. "Feeling better?"

"A―a _little,"_ she said, flushing deeper.

"Got a big battle coming up." Glade shifted his weight. "You gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine," she whispered, and moved backward, up the stairs. Charon's hands caught her before she backed into him, staring the Paladin down with a really mean look.

"Clara, Elder Lyons is asking to speak with you," he said. He didn't take his eyes off of Glade, though.

"O-okay," she said, stammering. "I gotta go, Glade."

"I'll see you on the battlefield," he said, slowly and quietly. Glade's helmet was directed toward Charon. Clara didn't understand what was going on, between them. Didn't know what to say―they were just staring at each other. It was strange.

"Yeah," she finally managed. "I'll be around." She turned and looked up at Charon. "Let's go?"

Charon met her eyes and nodded, leading her away from Glade and toward Elder Lyons, standing by himself near the robot. Clara felt nervous―all these guys were trained for fighting, even Charon―she was just lucky she hadn't been killed, yet. Why did they want her to come with them? She didn't want to be nervous around them, but they―they were all acting like she had every right to be there, and it felt weird to her. Weird to be part of this thing that had started before she was born. Weird to be part of an army―

She was suspicious of the Brotherhood, because _Charon_ had been suspicious. He hadn't acted like he was sure they were the good guys. She didn't have anyone else to trust besides _him,_ and―and he was old, which meant he _had_ to be smart enough to know, right?

Elder Lyons greeted her warmly, asked her if she was feeling better. Clara was ashamed of herself. Everyone in the Brotherhood was so nice to her. She didn't know how to take it. She felt like maybe they were just being nice because she was helping them, but... but Sarah still talked down to her like her dad did, and she knew _he_ was a good person. He'd only ever meant the best for her, so Sarah had to be a good person, too.

"I'm okay," she said, softly. "Thank you, Elder Lyons."

"That is good to hear," Elder Lyons said. He smiled and reached a hand out to the robot. "We'll be going out very soon―when Rothschild finishes up with Liberty Prime."

She stared up at him again, her eyes smiling, a tiny one on her mouth. "I like him," she said, letting her face show it.

Elder Lyons' face crinkled up into a smile. Clara liked Elder Lyons, too, even if he'd been a little hard on her at first. Like Charon, or Gunny. He _had_ to be tough to keep everyone else safe. And he was old―so he was smart―she thought about Charon and how he'd acted, again.

She was gonna have to ask him why, later. It didn't seem right to think that the Brotherhood were the bad guys. The Enclave killed her dad, after all―

"I do have to ask you," Elder Lyons said, calmly, "about this vial you gave me." He pulled out the little yellow thing and Clara frowned at it. "You said that President Eden was planning to put it into the water?"

"Yeah," she said, concentrating and trying to remember. "He said if I put it in the purifier... it was gonna get rid of the..." She frowned.

"He said that mutation must be eradicated," Charon said, in a low voice. "Before humankind could prosper. Ghouls and other horrific creatures."

 _"Yeah,"_ Clara said, relieved that Charon remembered.

"It is an FEV variant," Charon said, looking down at Clara. "Designed to purge all those with radiation poisoning from the wastes. No mutant, ghoul, or man would be safe; excepting those from Vaults with adequate radiation protection."

Clara blinked. "He said _I_ would be safe," she recalled.

Elder Lyons cleared his throat. "Madison explained to you, did she not?"

"Explained what?" Clara frowned again.

Elder Lyons sighed. "You were not born in a Vault, Clara," he said. "You, as well as all of the Brotherhood, would die after drinking FEV-tainted water."

She remembered so long ago when Moriarty told her the same thing―Clara shrugged it off. she didn't know if she believed it, still. "Mmm," she said, looking up at the robot again. No one _ever_ went into or left Vault 101... until her dad left...

"Well, it is good to have the vial in our hands." Elder Lyons put it into a pocket. "Disturbing that our enemy has access to such a thing, however." He stared up at Charon for a moment. "Clara?" he asked, looking to her.

"Yes?" she asked, nervously.

"I would like to invite you to be a part of the Brotherhood, from here on out," he said. "After this battle, we will still need help. Your father's dream of clean waters―well, we'll have to deliver water to people around the wastes." He smiled at her. "I'd like you to be there, for that."

"Um," she said, confused. "I'm sorry." She flushed and looked down at her hands. "I'm not sure what you mean..."

Elder Lyons patted her on the back, turning her to face the robot. "Wouldn't you like to stay here with us?" he asked, gently. "You may, if you wish. You can join the Brotherhood and continue to help us out. Sarah has asked that you please think about this, carefully. She would be glad to have you around."

She stared up at Liberty Prime. It would be nice... to have a home, a _real_ home, again. "I'll think about it," she said, but she _knew_ she'd say yes. She couldn't go back to Tenpenny Tower―it was too painful.

"It is time to go, Clara." He gestured to Liberty Prime, moving up and away from them. "I hope you will return to us safely, and that you will have an answer for me." He nodded her off.

Clara stepped out into the bailey and found the Pride moving quickly, tried to keep up with them―everyone was running around in a hurry, and big aircraft were flying overhead―Charon was behind her, and she held up her sledgehammer.

"Let's go," she said, a lot more confidently, as she walked out of the Citadel.

* * *

The rotunda was full of Enclave, but Sarah and Clara wiped them out. She followed Sarah up the stairs and saw the place―the place where her dad and Mister Burke had been―and wiped away tears with the back of her hand, shooting a sad glance at Charon.

He turned up a corner of his mouth for a brief moment, before turning watchful eyes on the shaking room. Clara held onto the railing for support, standing behind Sarah. She remembered when she had been here, before―when the Enclave man had made her dad die inside the purifier―Clara whimpered a little, and felt a rough hand on her shoulder.

 _"Clara,"_ Charon said, quietly.

"I'm okay," she answered. She looked up at Sarah. Sarah was yelling into an intercom. Clara could hear Doctor Li's voice. They both sounded very upset. "What's going on, Sarah?" she asked, moving a little closer.

"Li says the purifier is having problems―" Sarah looked back at her. "One of us has to get in there and start it up, quickly!" She was shouting over the rumbling in the room.

"I'll do it," Clara said, moving past Sarah on the stairs.

"But _―wait!"_ Sarah held out a hand to her. "Whoever goes in there will be _killed_ when it releases all that _radiation,_ Clara!"

Clara smiled at her. "It's okay. I _know."_ That was how her dad had died... and she wasn't _afraid_ of it, anymore. Thanks to Charon, she wasn't afraid of much at all.

She looked up at him. "You gotta wait here," she told him. "If I die―"

"I will do as you command," he said, but he seemed a little sad. She reached up and stroked his cheek for a second, then turned to the doors.

2-1-6, she remembered her dad said something about it. It was in her Pip-Boy, so she remembered. She typed in the code and stared up into the swirling waters ahead of her, through the glass. A statue inside started to show through the murky water―as it was cleaned―

 _This is for you, dad,_ she thought, putting a hand out to the glass. She smiled to herself.

"Goodbye, Charon―" she called, even though she knew he wouldn't hear her.

She let herself fall, when it was too much―it was like going to _sleep_ ―but no more nightmares. She did what she'd needed to do and she hadn't faltered―and she hadn't _failed._

Clara fell asleep for the first time in ages with a smile on her face, in the rotunda, as the world shook and shivered around her.

All the nightmares were outside of her head, now...


End file.
